


illicit affairs

by rebelbravado



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: AU Guinevere, Angst, Eventual Romance, F/M, Lancelot - Freeform, Lancelot and Guinevere, Lancelot just has a lot of feelings, Post Season 1, Romance, Slow Burn, Strong Female Characters, The Weeping Monk - Freeform, can someone give him a hug, kind of AU but not that AU, lets see how that goes, this is supposed to be a short story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:21:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 73,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26028655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebelbravado/pseuds/rebelbravado
Summary: Look at this godforsaken mess that you made me.___Father Carden had been right, demons truly could be beautiful.
Relationships: The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)/ AU Guinevere, The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)/Original Character(s)
Comments: 96
Kudos: 112





	1. trouble

**Author's Note:**

> A special little thank you to [NoemiTenshi](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25635706/chapters/62231026). Go read her story, you'll love it.

illicit affairs  
  
_____  
  
_hood over your head, keep your eyes down_  
  
  


She wasn’t sure what woke her up, those first thick drops of rain hitting her already cold skin or the tiny hand she felt fumbling at her hip but her reaction was the same nonetheless. Eyes wide open, every muscle tense in anticipation. When she registered the hand was trying to steal the pouch on her belt hers shot to catch the wrist attached to it, her grip uncomfortably tight.  
A soft curse escaped from the creature and as she shot up her free hand took a small dagger from its sheath. The creature protested as she twisted its arm, planting the tiny body firmly against her frame as she pinned her dagger to its neck, ready to kill if necessary.  
“ _I wouldn’t do that if I were you_.”  
A voice hissed and at the very same time she felt the sharp point of a sword press into the fabric that covered the skin between her shoulder blades. When she didn’t move, the tip pressed through the cloth and into her skin.  
“Lance!” the creature she now realized was a small boy called out and with a swift move she let go of the little thief, pushing him to the ground roughly as she turned to face her attacker. It was obvious the man had not expected her to draw a sword on him, an exasperated groan coming from deep within his hood as her blade met his with a sharp ring. One very difficult push and the man staggered back, through her already dying fire, sending sparks flying all around them.  
“He tried to steal my dinner.” She hissed low as the two of them circled around each other, awaiting the next move.  
“Stop it!” the boy yelled from the surrounding trees and she could just see a glimmer from within that dark hood as the man before her shot the boy a look.  
Something was off, she could tell by the way the hair at the back of her neck stood up. In the dim light of glowing embers between them she could hardly tell who she was facing, all she knew was that she had to survive the night. Preferably _with_ her dinner.  
He stepped forward in a sloppy but efficient lunge, his much larger weapon crashing down on hers as she held it up and over her head. Her arms protested painfully, and her shoulders burned as she tried to keep both his and her blade away from her face.  
“Stop it!” the boy yelled again.  
She wasn’t sure if it was at him or at her, but she took advantage of the distraction by kicking the man in the knee. He buckled down but was still fast enough to parry her next blow, the swiftness of his movement sending his hood back just enough to reveal most of a face. She wasn’t sure what she had expected, she was just sure this wasn’t it.  
A face just as young as her own glared back at her, bright eyes ablaze with a wild survival instinct that seemed more animal than man. There was blood there that couldn’t possibly be caused by her and the man only broke eye contact to cough, a painful sound yet maybe her only chance to make it through the night.  
She pulled back her sword to strike again but the man was fast and up his feet before she knew it. His free hand pulling another blade from his hip, this one smaller, shimmering dangerously in the last of the light. The color of death.  
It was raining hard now, making the ground beneath them slippery, sight impeded by the smoke of the dying fire. The small blade cut through the smoke and into the skin of her shoulder, slicing down to where it met her chest.  
She recoiled, gasping because the pain was hot and sudden. She staggered back and stumbled over the tree trunk she had been sleeping against. Her back hit the ground, twigs sticking into it, breaking skin even through the fabric of her clothes which were now drenched. The hooded figure took his time to reach her, hovering over her as his face once again disappeared in the shadows. He lifted his sword and pointed it at her, quiet as he seemed to assess her now that she posed no threat. Would he kill her?  
“Stop it, now!”  
The little one pulled at his arm and she grinned at the stupidity, this was her chance. She got up despite the pain that shot through her shoulder, hot blood mixing with cold rain, and kicked her leg up and against the man’s abdomen with such force it sent him backwards. A loud noise escaped from him, somewhere between a groan and a growl as he collapsed in on himself, down onto the muddy ground. She had expected it to surprise him, what she had not expected was for him to stay down.  
“No!” the little thief cried out.  
The man didn’t get up this time. He tried but collapsed again, his arms -which had seemed _so_ strong before- giving in under his own weight. The little boy rushed in between them, and she felt a strange sensation of guilt creep up on her. It was clear the boy cared a lot and as she looked at the both of them, she noticed the kid’s eye was black and bruised.  
“You’ll kill him!” the boy cried out, anger and sadness both apparent in his voice as he pounced on the man, his small hands pushing aside the dark robes to inspect the man’s body. The stain of blood was dark on the boy’s hands, even without much light, and there was a lot of it.  
She murmured a curse and dropped her weapon. She had just wanted safety, to survive the night and for her property not to be stolen in the process. Killing was never part of the plan. Not _usually,_ at least.  
“What…” she couldn’t finish the question.  
“Back off!” the boy snarled, moving to grasp at the weapon that now lay loosely in the man’s hand. He held it up, the blade trembling violently, and her hands immediately shot up in the air. The way the boy cared for the man melted her heart, his panic grounding her. This was just a boy. He had made a mistake, but he was just a boy.  
“Okay, okay…” she hushed, shivering now as the lack of movement turned her muscles cold in the rain. The man dragged himself through the mud and away from the both of them and she frowned.  
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” She repeated his words back at him.  
The hooded man coughed a reply and collapsed again. The boy rushed to his side, pulling the man’s arm around his shoulders, dragging him up to rest against a tree. Young eyes looked at her pleadingly now, the realization that he could not do this alone all over his face. She sighed and made eye contact with the boy, asking him for permission to come closer without words, he nodded anxiously.  
“Hold this.” She said, handing him her sword.  
The pile of dark wet robes groaned, reaching out for the boy but missing, a trickle of blood running down the side of that outstretched hand.  
“What happened to you?” she murmured as she got down on her knees, inching closer slowly. The boy hovered next to them, terror apparent on his face.  
She moved her hand to slowly raise the man’s hood, lifting its fabric between her index and middle finger, throwing it back to reveal that face again. Young and bloody and decorated with the strangest markings. Was it blood or tears?  
“He was attacked. They nearly killed him. He saved my life.” The boy said, breathing heavily and on the verge of crying.  
“Attacked?” she asked, distracted as she tried to figure out where all this blood was coming from. His robes were ripped in _many_ places, it was hard to tell how bad the injuries really were in the dark.  
“Those bloody _Paladins_.” The boy cursed, more to himself than to her.  
The word held so much hatred it dawned upon her that the boy might be one of her kind.  
“Born in the dawn…” she mused quietly as she fumbled at the man’s chest, almost too quiet for one to hear if they weren’t listening closely.  
“…to pass in the twilight.” The boy exclaimed, a newfound trust softening his voice.  
“He needs help.” She stated bluntly.  
“Can’t you help?”  
“I’m no healer.”  
“But we have nowhere to go…”  
She looked down at the man again, her own hands stained in his blood, there was no way he would make it to dawn bleeding like this. And wasn’t it true that all Fey were brothers and sisters? Wasn’t she supposed to help this boy? Her heart raced as she considered her options. There were only so many of them left. She had faced the massacre of an entire village of their kind. Could she really turn her back on one of her own now? A slight sense of panic crept up on her, but she pushed it down. She took in a deep, shaky breath, nodding to herself.  
“Alright.” She said, only half convinced she was doing this, forcing herself down a path of no return even without realizing it.  
“Are you on foot?”  
The boy shook his head.  
“There’s a horse.”  
She nodded curtly, pressing her lips together as she got up, the small face of the boy watching her every move.  
“Help me get him on it.”  
He nodded quickly, flinching as the sky thundered up above them but getting to work, nonetheless. The man was heavier than he looked, limp in their arms and she could feel how her own body ached where his blade had pierced her skin. The weight of him causing her blood to flow from the wound at a nauseating rate. They sloppily hoisted the hooded man over the dark horse’s back.  
She swallowed and steadied herself by taking the reins and leaning against the animal.  
“You’re going to have to trust me.” She said to the boy.  
He nodded once, suddenly brave.  
“Okay.”  
“Okay.”  
And they started walking.  
“I’m Squirrel by the way.” The boy offered carefully.  
For the first time that night she relaxed enough to smile the slightest of smiles, hidden in the corner of her mouth.  
“Nice to meet you, Squirrel.” She peered down under the horse’s neck to look at the boy. “I’m Guin.”  
Guinevere answered, trying not to think of the trouble that now was ahead.


	2. Not tonight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took me a while to update but I've been on a trip. I'm back now and inspired. So here's the first real chapter of this stories. I hope you enjoy.

1.  
  
_____  
  
_it’s born from just one single glance_

The rain had turned into a storm by the time they reached their destination. The boy named Squirrel was dragging his feet through the mud, only looking up when Guinevere stopped walking.  
“What is it?” he asked.  
Guin put one finger up against her lips, gesturing for the boy to be quiet.  
“Stay here, I’ll be right back.” She whispered and before the boy could protest, she was gone.  
She was sure it had to be here. Maybe just a little further…

She returned to Squirrel and the hooded man having found their shelter for the night. Without a word she moved to take the reins of the horse, leading it to the barn that had been her refuge just days ago. The boy followed, careful not to make a sound as he studied his surroundings. When they reached the entrance of the barn, Guin handed the reins to the boy to work the lock only to find it was just as she left it. Broken. Was luck on her side tonight?  
The barn was big enough for the horse to enter and as soon as she opened the door the wind slammed it back against the wall. The horse neighed anxiously and Guin was quick to put her hand to its neck, patting gently, hushing quietly as Squirrel worked to close the door behind them without being asked. Once the door was closed, Guinevere shifted her attention to the man, who was still not moving.  
“Fire and water.” She said, throwing her flint toward Squirrel who seemed to be fine with keeping busy if it was to help the man.  
He was heavy, maybe even heavier than before with wet robes and her wounded arm and he crashed down from the horse. It was hard not to buckle under his weight, but she managed to stay up, dragging him to the hay that had been her bed the night before. While putting him down as carefully as possible, she collapsed to her knees. It was so tempting to stay there, to move down and into the dry hay and just take a nap. Her eyelids grew heavy while her body shivered. _So,_ tempting. She jumped to attention as the boy appeared next to her, gathering old wood from the barn to start his fire.  
Guinevere shook her head and blinked, rubbing her face with one bloodstained hand before remembering why they were here.  
“What is this place?” Squirrel asked quietly.  
Guinevere moved closer to the man, working at the small buckles that attached his cloak to the rest of his robes.  
“A dead man’s home.”  
“You killed him?”  
Guinevere shot the boy a look and he didn’t dare to wait for her answer, instead busying himself with the fire. She had not killed the man, the Red Paladins had, she wondered what would scare the boy more.  
Turning back to the man she pushed his heavy cloak aside, moving her hands up to take off his hood when a strong hand caught her wrist. She gasped at the sudden movement, wanting to pull her hand back but his only tightened at the attempt, sending a shiver up her spine. Her eyes travelled up to his face, which was still half hidden in the hood, to see a pair of fierce blue eyes stare back at her.  
She was silent for a few heartbeats, staring back at him in defiance. She could tell how his hand was trembling even while holding onto her, his breathing shallow and quick.  
“I’m _trying_ to help you.” She whispered the warning so the boy wouldn’t hear.  
The man’s eyes were still fixed upon her, but his grip loosened, his hand slowly dropping to his side. He seemed to decide to believe her.  
Guinevere watched as he let her remove the hood, revealing that young face again. Fair skin and a sharp straight nose, his eyes like water, troubled with treacherous depths and running down from them dark markings in the shape of tears.  
“Help me, help him up.” She said as she started to pull at his arm and when Squirrel helped her, she could hear the man bite back a groan. Once he was up the kid pulled the cloak from under him while she undid his robes, peeling his tunic off his blood-soaked skin. What they found there made both the kid and Guinevere release a long shaky breath. There was no end to the man’s injuries. Some old and festering, some new and still bleeding. Guin pointed behind herself as panic started to take over, what had she gotten herself into? She gestured at the bag she had attached to the horse. When Squirrel started to remove it from the saddle, she shook her head quickly, turning back to face the work before her.  
“All of it, just bring all of it.”   
She was overwhelmed by the amount of pain that was inflicted upon this being and when Squirrel brought her bags as well as the man’s she started to rummage through their stuff to look for anything that might help.  
“Is he going to make it?”  
Guinevere looked up from the bag now, meeting Squirrel’s scared gaze with brutal honesty.  
“I don’t know.”  
The boy swallowed and nodded and the sky above them roared with thunder. The horse neighed again, moving restlessly behind them as Guinevere started to work on his master’s injuries. Her hands hovered over the abused skin of the man’s back and her eyes followed the cuts up, up and…  
There, at the crown of his head, surrounded by long curling locks of dark hair was the mark of pure evil. Guinevere’s hands dropped to her sides and she was quick to get up, causing the man to drop sideways. Terror raged through her veins as she tried her best to breathe, searching for her weapon as Squirrel shot up from his seat by the fire.  
“My sword, give me my sword…” she hissed at him.  
“What? No!”  
She moved quickly to the boy, pulling him from the fire and behind her, backing them both away from the man who now looked up at them uneasily, mouth half open as he struggled to stay awake.  
Squirrel protested but she kept him behind her as she found her sword and held it up in the air between them and the man.  
“He’s one of them!” she snarled, her heart skipping violently in her chest as the man looked straight up at her.  
“You’re Fey..?” he croaked, barely audible.  
He rolled his eyes back like he couldn’t believe the situation he found himself in, the smallest of cynical smirks playing around just one corner of his mouth and as he tried to scoff, he coughed again, this time blood stained his lips. He was dying. If they would just run, he wouldn’t be able to follow them.  
“He saved me!” Squirrel slipped from her grip.  
Outside the wind blew violently around the barn, making the wood creak and howl.  
Guinevere frowned, her dark gaze still fixed upon the man who wouldn’t take his eyes off her. Staring at her as if he was daring her to end him, to seal his fate.  
“You don’t understand, Squirrel…”  
“He saved me!”  
“He’s one of them!”   
The boy rushed back to his savior, helping him sit up.  
“If you won’t help him, I will.” The boy said stubbornly, rummaging through her stuff now.  
“You trust him?” Guin asked, slowly lowering her blade, her eyes never leaving the man’s.  
“He killed half the Trinity Guard for me.” Squirrel offered proudly and Guin’s brow furrowed even more. She looked from Squirrel to the man.  
“Is this true?” she demanded, and the man blinked slowly, almost casually as he nodded once, his head so heavy it bobbed, making it hard for him to look up again.  
“Just let me die.” He murmured and Guin could tell he meant it. The comment was enough for her to give into the seed of doubt that Squirrel had planted in her heart, moving in closer to get to work.

Patching the man up took almost the entire night, the only two tunics she still owned and most of her sanity. He was covered in makeshift bandages and hay to keep him warm by the fire. Guinevere still wasn’t sure if he would survive.  
The little boy was curled up not far from him, next to the warm horse that had finally calmed down now that his master seemed safe. Guinevere, however, couldn’t sleep. She _wouldn’t_ sleep with someone like that near her. But she was _so_ tired.  
When both of them were asleep long enough for her to feel relatively safe and the storm had settled into a comforting background noise, she decided it was time to tend to her own wound which was now throbbing aggressively.  
  
She turned her back on the sleeping man, sitting and staring at the fire in front of her to gather the courage to clean herself up. When she finally decided this was as good as it was going to get she sharply sucked in some air only to let it escape from her lips in a slow and steadying breath while she slipped her fingers through the tear in her tunic, opening it up enough to see the gash in her shoulder. She closed her eyes and cursed under her breath, her hand resting on her shoulder to muster courage before she opened her eyes again and moved to pull her tunic down and over her shoulder. If she could just take care of this, she could maybe get some sleep. Just maybe. 

***

The monk had been in and out while the stranger and the boy had worked to patch up the wounds as best as they could. It was far from pleasant. Sometimes he lost consciousness because their actions hurt too much, sometimes he woke up because of it. It was torture. But he deserved torture after what he had done. Maybe this was hell? Surrounded by demons, hurting for all eternity. Once they were done, he was somewhere near asleep. He had almost died twice tonight, if he would die in his sleep, he’d have peace with it. It would be more mercy than he deserved.

He woke to the crackling sound of a fire and the strange sensation of most his skin cooling and burning simultaneously. The first thing he saw was his horse, Goliath, blinking slow and peaceful in the warm light. The boy he’d come to know as Percival was sleeping next to the animal, his small face even more swollen as before.  
His eyes shot up at the sound of thunder. There was an old roof above him, and a leak. His eyes followed the rain that dripped down, down, down, onto the ground next to a young woman.  
He could not see her face, but he remembered it well. Almond eyes, dark like burnt chestnuts and strong brows that betrayed her every emotion. Her back was turned toward him, making it hard for him to see what she was doing but from the way her shoulder was uncovered he could guess she was tending to her wounds. The wound _he_ had inflicted. He was careful not to make a sound as he remained on his back, unable to move just yet, hardly able to breathe as he watched her.  
He tried to figure out what would give away her demonic heritage. It was hard to tell, maybe even impossible if he didn’t know what she was already. Her skin was the color of honey in the light of the fire, with no signs of her unnatural being. Dark hair pulled over one very human looking shoulder to rid the other of anything that might be in the way of her task. There was a line of silver hidden in the crease of her neck, a necklace. He watched as she tended to her wound adequately. Not in the tender and skilled way a healer would, but with practical determination. It looked as painful as it had been for him, but she didn’t flinch. He wondered what had been done to her to make her carry pain so well, but he soon realized he knew exactly what had happened. The Red Paladins.  
“Why didn’t you let me die?”  
It took more effort to speak than he had anticipated, but the words came out, nonetheless. She stiffened only slightly, her shoulders rigid, but other than that she didn’t betray being startled by his voice. The barn was silent except for the sound of rain on the roof and the crackling fire between them. She took her time to turn and face him, her eyes directly meeting his as she spoke bluntly. There was still blood on her face, his blood.  
“You still might.”  
Something in Lancelot, deep down in a place he had forgotten but that had recently come back to life it seemed, he wanted to laugh.  
He didn’t. Instead he met her gaze, that defiant stare, peering at him over the flames. He tried to sit up -which hurt more than he liked to admit- and she didn’t tell him not to. She just watched, and where it had been easy before to read her every emotion, she was now an enigma to him.  
“You’re the _Weeping Monk_.”  
He knew it wasn’t a question, so he didn’t answer her. His eyes traveled down to her bare shoulder, the wound looked angry but taken care of for now. A faint shimmer caught his eye as she moved to cover herself up and he could see the necklace again, a long line of silver following the curve of bones and flesh down and into the folds of her shirt.  
“So, why’d you help the kid?”  
He looked back up at her, the challenge still there in her eyes.  
“He’s just a boy.”  
She laughed, a humorless sound, and Lancelot caught himself thinking it would’ve been beautiful it there wasn’t so much darkness in it.  
“You realize you’ve killed thousands of boys, right?”  
“Never the children.” Lancelot retorted. He raised his voice slightly, then, startled by his own volume he quickly glanced at the kid to make sure he was still sleeping. When he was, he relaxed slightly.  
“You know that’s not true.”  
Her voice was low and she averted her gaze to busy herself with cleaning blood off her hands in a bowl of water next to her. The notion was as true now as it was the first time he had heard it, the time it had changed him forever.  
“I know.” He replied, his voice just a whisper but he could feel that same shift within him again. Something that resembled the echo of belonging, like admitting this was the right thing to do even though it went against everything he was taught to believe.  
The woman’s eyes shot up now, her hands still in the water and the look in her eyes sent a shiver up his spine. It was as if she was looking right through him and into his very soul. Lancelot felt strangely exposed as her dark eyes bore into his. Father Carden had been right, demons truly could be beautiful.

***  
  
Guinevere wasn’t sure what she had expected from the Weeping Monk. She had heard stories, all of them gruesome, most of them probably true. The story of a man that had scared even her older brother, who had been among the best fighters the Fey had ever seen. This secret merciless weapon of the Red Paladins didn’t seem half as deadly now sitting across the fire from her. She saw sad eyes and tired bones, she heard a broken voice reply to her hatred.  
“I know.”  
She couldn’t look away. Her entire being confused. Part of her screaming to run, another part telling her to kill him, but she remained silent, staring right into the eyes of her people’s worst enemy feeling like she recognized something there. Guin felt like an animal recognizing her own but thrown off by a scent that didn’t quite match its expectation. A raw and wild instinct calling to her and when it became too much she shot up, turning away from those weeping eyes to do anything but stare at them. A rush of blood to the head almost got the best of her and she quickly gathered the soiled water and rushed outside.  
The barn was a warm and heady traitor. Outside rain and wind greeted her violently, slamming the door shut behind her and the wind right out of her. It was cold and Guinevere knew that if it had just been the heat causing her to feel this dizzy it would’ve changed by now. She leaned back against the barndoor and closed her eyes, panic taking over. She was _so_ tired, she just wanted to sleep, how did she get here?  
Her question was answered by a loud clap of thunder, making her jump. She was shaking, shivering even, and realized that she had nowhere to go. Not in this weather, not in this condition.   
She returned to the barn in silence, rain dripping from her nose as she started to pace by the fire. He was watching her through half closed eyes. She could feel them on her even from his position laying down in the warm and dry hay.  
“Are you okay?” he asked, his eyes closed now, as if he was sleeping.  
“Do you care?” she shot back.  
The emotional walls that had betrayed her just moments ago up sky high again. The monk’s eyebrows shot up, but his eyes remained closed. Only one of them opened at the shuffling sound of Guinevere almost losing her balance as another rush of blood to the head made it feel like the room was spinning.  
_So_ _tired_.  
“You lost blood.” His voice was stern and low, a statement. There was no need to reply because they both knew it was true. Guinevere glanced down at him.  
“You should rest.”  
Silence as Guin walked over to the man’s semi-limp body and bent down. He watched her every move but didn’t protest as her hand patted the parts of his robes she had not taken off or expected before. She slipped her finger along the line of his boot, then along the other, taking out the knife she found there. She found another dagger at his thigh and took that too. The man’s eyes never left her face. He didn’t move, not even when she patted -not carefully- along his side to check for weapons there.  
“Anything else?”  
Guin watched as the man moved his hand up, holding out his own dagger just under his chin as she watched him take a small pointy knife, almost like a needle, from the hair gathered at the back of his head. He pulled it out and handed it to her willingly, his eyes shifting to the blade that pressed to his chin and back up to hers. When she finally met his gaze she saw how his dark locks fell down and around his face, making him look kinder.  
“You should sleep.” He said. “I won’t kill you. Not tonight.”  
“Not tonight.” She repeated as she pulled back the knife from his chin, twisting it swiftly in her hand to put it away.  
  
Was he making a joke or a promise? It strangely felt like both.


	3. The boy

2.  
  
_____  
  
 _it still hurts underneath my scars from where they pulled me apart_

_The boy wasn’t safe.  
  
It was nighttime, and although the first snow had just fallen that morning it was hot. It was hot because the world was on fire. Lancelot could feel an overwhelming panic come over him and he knew he had felt this before. A long time ago. He felt small and scared and as his tried to see through the thick smoke he found a boy. _

_They were dragging him by his hair, which was lighter than seemed right, through the snow and the flames as sparks were raining down around them. There was thick fabric everywhere around him now and several hands were pulling at his limbs. There were screams, a woman’s voice he knew he was supposed to remember but he didn’t, calling out his name in heartbreaking terror. He felt_ so small _. Lancelot tried to fight his way through the layers and layers of fabric to find the boy, to see that he was alright, and when he reached the burning forest again he fell onto his knees in snow so cold it hurt even his bones. He was at the edge of a frozen pond and it was quiet. He reached forward, drawn to the ice by an invisible pull and in the reflection of its frozen surface he saw a small boy stare back at him. The face of Percival with his own eyes.  
  
_

The boy wasn’t safe.   
  
Lancelot shot up, back straight, ready for action in the reflex that woke him from his sleep most days and was greeted by agony. He looked around in the same panic that carried from his dream to reality in search of the boy, confused by his entire body protesting his every move. His head was throbbing violently, and part of his sight was blurry, and his lungs were burning, as if the smoke from his dreams had made a home there.  
“Hey, hey, calm down.”  
He heard an unfamiliar voice call out but when he tried to find who it belonged to all he could see was dark spots clouding what was left of his vision.  
“Where is he?” Lancelot groaned.  
“Lay down.” The voice demanded.   
A small hand started to push against his shoulders now, the pressure hurt, and Lancelot tried to get it off. It was warm and soft and didn’t pull back.  
“Where is he?!” he roared now, turning away from the person’s grasp, reaching out for anything that might give him an indication of where the boy was.  
The figure was still fighting him, and Lancelot struggled for freedom just like in his nightmare, when he looked up at his oppressor, he saw a frightened face. Dark eyes just inches from his. In a moment of clarity, he used her proximity to search for a weapon, anything that might help him. He found it at her hip, which was so close to his hand that he could grab the weapon and turn on her. It was hard to tell who of them moved which way as the two of them tumbled to try and get the upper hand. Lancelot was content when he found the dagger in his hand was now at her throat. His vision was still growing darker at the sides, he blinked to keep his eyes on his target which he slowly started to recognize but not quite.  
“Where. Is. He.” He demanded darkly, pressing the blade to soft skin almost hard enough to draw blood.  
He could feel the heaving of her chest under his arm but she didn’t look scared. When Lancelot tried to figure out why it dawned upon him that she too, was holding a weapon. Its tip pressing just under his lower ribs, ready to push up and under his ribcage. He had to admit it was an effective position.  
“He’s right there.” She answered him so coolly it confused him. Her eyes shot up to indicate the direction and he followed to find the boy rushing into the barn. Yesterday’s events slowly started to come back to him as he pushed himself off the woman, sure he had opened some wounds by his rash actions. He could feel his entire body burning now that the adrenaline was fading and as he coughed, he could taste the bitterness of blood on his tongue.  
“What’s going on?!” the boy demanded, rushing to Lancelot’s side, who was now lightheaded as he fell back into makeshift bed he had woken up in.  
The woman got up now, patting the hay from her clothes, her eyes never leaving Lancelot as she reached out for the boy to pull him back and away from Lancelot.  
“Don’t.” she mumbled.  
The boy shrugged off her hand and rushed to his side.   
“He’s hurt.”  
“He attacked me.” She retorted.  
Her voice colder than it had been when she tried to soothe Lancelot. The contrast was stark and confusing.  
“She tried to stab me.” Lancelot groaned, suddenly feeling the need to win the boy over.  
Lancelot glared at the woman, who watched the two of them closely with those dark eyes of hers. He kept his gaze fixed upon her, watching her every move as the boy revealed a small jug and put it to Lancelot’s lips.  
“Drink.” Percival demanded and Lancelot’s gaze shifted from the woman to the boy inspecting him. The bruise on his face looked angry and painful and there was still blood under his small nose from where he had been hit but other than that he seemed to be okay. Relief washed over Lancelot as he slumped back, suddenly tired. He remembered now how the boy had tried to steal the woman’s food and how she had helped them.  
“Check his bandages.” The woman said to the boy, her voice still demanding but softer now. She spoke like she was used to giving commands.  
“Where are you going?” Percival asked.   
She didn’t answer.  
“Touch him and you’re dead.” She pointed at Lancelot warningly and he believed her, because he’d do the same to her. She turned and rushed out the barn door again, just like the night before.

***

  
Guin took her time before returning to the man and the boy. She knew there was a small creek not far behind the barn and washed her face there, the water was cold this time of year and wild after the storm from the night before. The woods were peaceful and quiet, at least for now, and the setting sun and fresh morning air helped Guinevere clear her mind. Had she felt compassion for that monster as he was haunted by nightmares? She had listened to him cry and moan until she felt guilty. What was there to feel guilty for? Surely he had brought it upon himself to be haunted by nightmares at night.  
She returned to the barn with her supplies. Fresh water, pine sap and chamomile. The only wound remedy she remembered from treating her brother once when she was younger, before she decided she wasn’t the type of woman who would heal others. Before there was no one left to heal. Before she had wished she could’ve been better at it when it was too late.  
When she walked back in the boy was clumsily pulling at the fabric that seemed to be stuck to the man’s wounds and she felt bad for the child. It was obvious this job made him extremely uncomfortable.  
Guinevere didn’t speak as she searched the barn for the pot she had stolen from the main house just days before and filled it with the fresh water.   
“Sit still, will you?” she heard the boy mumble behind her.   
She patiently worked to relight the fire and put the pot over it for the water to boil.   
“Just let me help you.” Squirrel again, his small annoyed voice tainted by uncertainty now.  
Guinevere took some of her gathered pine sap and some of the chamomile and started to mix them into a thick paste in the palm of her hand in the absence of proper tools. She listened to the boy’s protesting and the man’s quiet groans until she was happy with the consistency of her paste.  
“Come here.” she said quietly as she dipped the end of her scarf in the warm water.  
The boy seemed to understand that she needed him as he walked over to her a little too eagerly, most likely glad to leave the dirty work behind.  
When Guinevere turned to look at him it struck her how young he must be, and her heart sunk. She had never been good with children, but she liked them, nonetheless.  
“This might hurt a little.” She mumbled as she took the wet part of her scarf and cleaned the cut at his lip.  
The Weeping Monk stiffened behind Squirrel, and Guinevere’s eyes shot up at him. His gaze warned her, but she didn’t stop, gently cleaning the boy’s wounds under his watchful eye. When she was done cleaning him up, she dabbed some of the paste on the bruise underneath his eye.  
“What is that?” Squirrel growled as the paste worked its magic, stinging his skin in the process. Guinevere didn’t answer him, carefully treating the smaller wounds in silence until she was done. The boy let her. She was starting to understand how the Weeping Monk had convinced the boy he cared. The boy craved kindness. How long had he been alone?  
“There’s old clothes in the house, could you get them for me?”  
“There might be food too!” The boy exclaimed excitedly.  
Guin nodded awkwardly, gave the boy one of her knives and waited for him to be gone until she turned her attention on the man, washing her hands in the water over the fire. When they were both sure the boy was out of hearing distance, the man spoke.  
“Will he be safe there?” he croaked.  
“We’re safe. For now.” She added as she moved her scarf through her hands to find the other end her shoulder protesting with every move but she refused to show him she was in pain. Guinevere got up with the pot of water and sat down by the man’s side. This would take all of her patience but the look on the little boy’s face had broken her heart.

***   
  
  


“Sit still.” She ordered.  
“Why are you doing this?”   
He was genuinely curious.  
“Why did you kill my people?”  
Lancelot’s eyebrows shot up at her hostile retort. Something told him that she didn’t want to answer his question just as much as he didn’t want to answer hers and maybe that was all the answer he would get. She was completely silent as she took something that looked like a scarf and dipped it in water. He watched every move, noticing how her lips pressed together and her eyebrows furrowed only slightly as she moved her arm up to press the hot wet scarf to the fabric stuck to his wounds. She didn’t seem fazed by the severity of his wounds nor by his uncovered torso, her eyes fixed upon her work.  
Lancelot had to admit the warm water was nice, soothing the pain that had haunted him all night making his eyes fall shut for only a moment, only to open as she took the comfort away from him. He swallowed, his head heavy and pounding.  
“What’s your name?” he forced himself to stay awake by talking to her, at least until the boy was back safe, but there was no reply.  
He was more than confused by how the actions of her hands could be so very different than the rest of her. Her entire body tense in his presence, yet her hands moved slow and deliberate, pressing the hot cloth against his chest with tender pressure. The silence was strange, the boy had hardly been quiet ever since they had escaped the camp.  
“Lancelot.” He breathed, his voice weaker than he liked it to be.  
To his surprise she looked up from her work to meet his gaze, there was a question there he couldn’t quite decipher so he continued. It felt strange to say his name out loud again, he decided to try again. Testing the waters.  
“My name’s Lancelot.”  
It felt wrong. All of it. Him trying to deny who he had become, him trying to fall back on who he used to be. It felt so very wrong and yet…  
“Guinevere.” She surprised him with a reply, and the name felt like a strange reward.  
“Guinevere.” He repeated before going into another coughing fit.  
Coughing hurt so much it clouded his vision again, but he couldn’t stop it, each cough triggering the next until his lungs were burning so badly, he wanted to stop breathing altogether.  
“Here.”  
Her voice was eerily calm yet it was all he could focus on as black spots closed in from the periphery of his vision. She helped him down and the coughing stopped, leaving the taste of blood on his lips again. His vision cleared to see the woman -Guinevere- turn from him. He caught her wrist before she could leave. It was slender, his fingers closing around it easily. She didn’t move to fight him, instead her eyes pierced into his warningly making him wonder why she even let him live.  
“Percival..” Lancelot struggled to talk now.  
“Stop talking, you fool.”  
“If anything happens…”  
Guinevere rolled her eyes and moved her free hand to peel his from her wrist, he could tell it hurt so he let go quickly. His arm dropped to his side limply and against his will, he was losing control over his body.  
“I don’t know what you’ve led him to believe but I don’t trust you. You’re one of them. _Saving_ one boy doesn’t change that.”   
It was the most he had heard her speak and he could hardly understand half of it. He tried to focus on her face to keep from slipping out of consciousness, his eyes rolling back in his head as he tried to sit up again. He just needed to see the boy again.  
“Stay down.” She pressed him back to the floor, roughly this time.  
“If you _hurt_ him.” Lancelot gurgled, his hand finding her wrist again, squeezing it warningly now and the woman’s dark eyes narrowed as her voice turned to ice.  
“I would never hurt my own people.” She spat.

Did she know?

“I found food!” Percival stormed into the barn happy as could be and the both of them looked at the boy instantly. The boy was safe.  
Lancelot let go of Guinevere's wrist and his consciousness.


	4. Fire

3.  
  
_____  
  
 _i’ve been cold, i’ve been merciless, but the blood on my hands scares me to death._

The three of them spent several days in the barn, listening to the rain, eating stale food they would steal from the house, keeping warm by a fire. Guinevere was close to leaving almost every day.

  
“So, what’s your story?” the boy looked at her, cheeks puffy and red from the heat of the fire, nibbling at the rabbit they had caught earlier that day.  
Guinevere looked at him, her eyebrows up. Over the days she had grown to like the child and she had to admit that although she thought about leaving most of the time, it was nice to be around Fey. The two of them had spoken over the days but never when the Weeping Monk was awake and always about simple things like how to prepare a rabbit for dinner or how to pick locks and handle daggers. Guinevere was practical, careful not to give anything away that might hurt her later. But the boy was coaxing information out of her now. Guinevere glanced over at the sleeping monk, deep in another fever dream and allowed the child his questions.  
“No story, just traveling.”  
“Alone?”  
“Yes.”  
“Why?”  
“My people are dead.”  
It was hard for Guinevere to speak to children without being too blunt, she had gotten used to the harshness of life and somehow it felt wrong to lie to a child just to make him feel better.  
“Mine too,” the boy looked down sadly, “I think.” He added.  
“You shouldn’t give up unless you’re sure.”  
The boy looked up again, a faint trace of hope in his eyes.  
“How’d they die?” Squirrel asked cheekily and she could tell he wasn’t afraid. What had he seen that made him so brave?  
“A fire.” Guinevere answered as she stared into the fire in front of her. She remembered the smell of burning bodies all too well, it haunted her even today.  
“How’d you survive?”  
The boy’s voice pulled her from the darkness of her memories, and she looked at him, guilt washing over her at the question.  
“I wasn’t with them.” Guinevere got up now, wanting the conversation to end so badly she needed to physically remove herself from it. “You should finish eating.”  
“Where are you going?” he asked, mouth full. A greedy eater.  
Guinevere eyed the monk’s horse, tempted to make up a lie and leave but the boy stared at her suspiciously.  
“Where would you go?” he asked, dropping the bone of his rabbit leg, his voice suddenly much older.  
“To find the Fey, you could come with me you know. I could help you find your people.”  
The boy shook his head quickly.  
“I’m not leaving him behind.”  
Guin rolled her eyes in frustration. She had been trying to win the boy’s trust for days now, wanting him to be safe, to maybe find a home together with other Fey. But the boy wouldn’t leave the man’s side.  
“Why?” she groaned.  
“He’s all I have left.”  
Guinevere shook her head, anger and annoyance rising up within her.  
“Fine.” She said, rushing out of the barn and into the night.

***  
  
 _Someone was screaming at him to get up. The sound was so loud and the voice so deep it seemed more like a growl to Lancelot as he struggled to get up.  
_ _His knees were scraped and hurt, holes in trousers revealing bloody skin and his ankle hurt so badly it was hard to stand on it but all of that was drowned out by a sharp pain when a calloused palm made contact with his cheek. He fell again, to his stomach this time, and the earth seemed to welcome him with open arms. Calling out to him to stay there, in the sweet-smelling leaves of autumn. There was no pain there on the ground, just the scent of dirt that was strangely soothing to him.  
_ _Another roar, the same words repeated but Lancelot didn’t obey this time. His hands tingled with a familiar sensation and traveled along the dirt up to the leaves in front of him. When he looked he saw a small hand attached to his body. A child’s hand. Trembling but certain. As he reached out, small fingers found a golden leaf in the dirt. The little hand picked it up, transforming gold and green where skin touched leaf. It felt like coming home.  
_ _Lancelot groaned as a foot came down on his wrist, which was much smaller than it was supposed to be. He looked up into that familiar face, the face that could be home some days and hell the others. There was so much disappointment there and Lancelot braced himself as the man shifted his weight from one foot to the other, crushing the little hand, the wind taking the leaf from broken fingers and the feeling of home with it._

 _  
You will burn like your parents.  
  
_ _Demon._

_Devil._

_Abomination._

_Please stop._

_“_ Please stop!”  
  


***

  
“Guin!”  
Guin immediately shot up at the sound of her name, looked back at the fox she had been after and cursed to find out it too had heard the cry.  
“Guin!”  
It was the boy and he sounded terrified. Guin didn’t hesitate, instead she started running through the wood back to the barn she had left him at. When she reached him he was standing in the doorway, eyes big with fear, panting slightly.  
“What is it?!” she demanded, kneeling down in front of the boy, making sure he wasn’t hurt.  
 _“Please stop!”  
_ Another terrified voice called out from within the barn. Guin looked up and frowned. She had been genuinely worried for the boy but realized this was about the man. _Lancelot_.  
The boy looked back inside, obviously disturbed. Inside the horse pranced dangerously, shrieking restlessly and Guinevere pushed past Squirrel quickly.  
“What happened?” she snarled at the boy as she took in the scene.  
The barn was a mess. It looked like someone had tried to walk _through_ their fire and that someone was the Weeping Monk. There were embers everywhere, sparks flying around and a small fire had started to form where her bed had been just earlier that day. The pot and it’s contents were scattered across the dirt. When she followed the trail of burnt wood and embers she found Lancelot curled up onto his side, holding his own arm close to his chest, pleading to some unknown entity to stop whatever it was doing.  
“Squirrel, the fire.” She instructed quickly as she rushed to kick the embers and wood back to where it belonged, making sure the man’s cloak didn’t catch on fire. The boy rushed to take care of her bed of fire.  
Guinevere got down on her knees, pulling at the man’s shoulder when she noticed sweat covered his forehead. The man was soaking wet and even through his robes she could feel heat radiate from him like fire itself.  
“He’s burning up…” she mumbled more to herself than to anyone else.  
Her gaze traveled down to the hand he was hugging to his chest, when she reached out to look at it he turned and pushed her off him.  
Guinevere fell back, just barely avoiding the campfire, crawling back up quickly as Squirrel joined her.  
“What’s wrong with him?” he asked.  
The man in between them was rattling the same word over and over dangerously fast, building up to a climax.  
“Hey, hey, hey….” Guinevere tried to get a hold of the man’s flailing arms. Squirrel hovered closer, wanting to help. Guinevere knew what was coming but was too late to act.  
“STOP!”  
He pushed the boy off him, hand making contact with his already black eye and the boy cried out, his small hands covering his face as he crawled back like a frightened animal.  
“Hey!” she roared her demand now, pulling the man back against her, arms wrapped around his to keep a hold of him as he struggled. It took all her strength to keep him back and away from the boy but he seemed to wake.  
“It’s Percival, it’s Percival remember..” she tried to soothe him without knowing why and as most of the tension slowly left his body she could feel him tremble now. A grown man trembling like a boy and Guinevere caught herself feeling sorry for him.  
“Percival..?” the word came out strained.  
“Calm down.” She growled in his ear, still holding him as some of the struggle returned. “Calm down.” She repeated.  
As she looked down over his shoulder she could see what had caused the distress. The back of the man’s left hand was covered in blisters, the skin red, knuckles charred and the scent of burnt skin filled her nostrils causing her mind to fill with trauma.

***  
  
For a moment he was unsure of where he was. All he could feel was pain and fear and….the fluttering of a heartbeat against his back. Arms around him. Warm breath against his cheek. It wasn’t exactly an embrace, he realized he didn’t even remember how those really felt, but he didn’t feel malice either.  
“Calm down.”

That voice again.  
He tried to focus, to become stronger than his fear, rise above emotion the way he had been taught. His breathing slowed.  
“Calm down.”   
He wanted to obey that voice. He wanted to calm down.  
The heart kept beating quickly against his back, like a knock on a door. It didn’t slow down. It only let go and Lancelot dropped to the floor, turning to see the woman that had helped him against all odds. He realized it had been her voice telling him to calm down, but the woman herself looked anything but calm.  
“You hit me!”  
Lancelot turned again to find an angry boy, little hands pressed to his cheek.  
 _Little hands.  
_ Lancelot looked down at his own hands now, surprised to find new injuries there.  
“I’m sorry.” He mumbled, unsure if it was to the boy or to the man from his dreams.  
“I’m sorry.” He repeated, turning to face the woman again who stared at him like he really was the demon he believed he was.  
She swallowed hard and something seemed to change within her, like she was switched back on.  
“Seems like your fever finally broke.” She replied, the words held no emotion.  
“What happened?” Lancelot looked down at his hand again, still trembling but feeling clearer than he had in days.  
“You were dreaming.” Percival answered.  
“Are you hurt?” Lancelot asked, surprised at the tenderness in his own voice. He didn’t think he was capable of such feelings. And for a demon child…  
“I’m fine.”  
But the way the boy said it made it clear he wasn’t fine.  
Lancelot turned to ask the woman the same question, but she was already gone, he turned his head and found her with his horse, calming the animal like she had calmed him. Her hair was almost as dark as his horse, her hand running along its neck as tenderly as it had treated his wounds nights before. He wanted to speak but couldn’t find words that made sense, so he remained quiet.  
“Squirrel?” she asked as she busied herself with the horse. The boy shot up and nodded, rushing to her side. Lancelot felt a strange sense of jealousy but before he could figure out why it had occurred, he was pulled into another direction. Watching as the woman got down to her knees, studying the boy’s face. Guilt washed over him.  
“Are you okay?” she whispered, surely she didn’t want him to hear but there was no hiding in this small space.  
Squirrel nodded and although Lancelot was relieved at this answer he couldn’t help but feel disgusted with himself. Maybe the boy _would_ be better off with this woman, with his own kind. _Their_ own kind. Lancelot was overwhelmed by the unwelcome sense of longing for something he knew he shouldn’t long for. Yet seeing the kindness between these two demons made him wonder if they really were so wrong. This kindness looked like grace to him. A grace he had been searching for so long but he could never quite find. Had it been his dream causing him to miss something that was taken from him a long time ago? Should he miss it at all? What would Father Carden think of these thoughts and doubts? Father Carden…who never treated him with the kindness that these two seemed to share. Would God allow demons to have love but not him? After all he had done for God. Where was God’s grace in that?  
Once again it was her voice that pulled him from the darkness of his mind. He looked up at the unlikely duo again.  
“Why don’t you make your pet something to eat?”  
Lancelot knew he should be offended at her words but seeing the boy chuckle took the hate from her words and turned it into something strangely tender.  
“He’s hurt.” The boy said quietly, as if it was a secret Lancelot didn’t already know.  
“Don’t worry about that.” She smiled and although the gesture was small and fleeting and not in any way meant for him the sight was more beautiful than anything Lancelot had seen before.

 _Demons truly could be beautiful_.

***  
  


The man looked different somehow.  
Maybe it was because he wasn’t covered in dark robes and a hood, or maybe it was because for the first time in days he looked _awake_. Guinevere felt strangely uneasy under his scrutiny as she wrapped his hand in strips of old cotton. His hand was warmer than hers, most likely because of the injuries, and as she turned it around in hers his fingertips pressed into the palm of her hand as if he was searching for something.  
She looked up at him warningly. He raised just one of his eyebrows and stared back at her in defiance, what was that?  
“You’re strong.” The man stated as Squirrel rummaged about behind them, trying to save whatever was left of the pot and it’s contents after the monk’s little tantrum.  
“Strong enough to kill you.”  
He made the sound of a chuckle, but his face didn’t change. Guinevere pulled at the cloth around his hand, tying the knot tighter than necessary just to prove her point. He pulled his hand back quickly, glaring down at her.  
“You’re not a real monk.” She mused now, quickly glancing over at Squirrel who seemed to have forgotten about the smack to his face and was now sneakily helping himself to some of the meat that was meant for Lancelot. Guinevere let him.  
“My allegiance is with the Church.” The answer came out as a default, trained and still awkward. The man’s voice flat.  
“Is it, now?” she sat back and this time it was her turn to scrutinize him.  
He wasn’t afraid to meet her gaze, doing so boldly, yet there was something wrong there. She now realized how the man was different now that he seemed awake. He felt unnatural. His every move felt like trained behaviour.  
“They took me in, to save my soul from eternal damnation.”  
Guinevere frowned slightly, part of her wondered what that really meant, but pride took the better of her and she snorted.  
“And how’s that working out for you?”  
“Food’s ready.” Squirrel interrupted their awkward conversation with a sloppy smile as he handed the monk his dinner.  
“Thank you.” The man breathed.  
“Guin shot the rabbit herself.” The boy said with a strange pride, was the child trying to make this less uncomfortable?  
“I’m not surprised.” The man answered, his daring gaze looking right at her.  
Whenever Guinevere was convinced she had the upper hand in their strained communication, she lost control to that very look of his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi new readers, thank you for your kudos, you're too kind. Don't hesitate to let me know what you think in the comments, would love to chat to you!


	5. Sword

4.  
  
_____  
  
 _you keep begging for forgiveness, but you don’t think you’ve done wrong._

Guinevere barely slept since then, realizing that she had created a very dangerous situation for herself. How do you sleep when the greatest soldier of your enemy was right there in the room with you? She would lie if she would deny she was afraid.  
The man still slept a lot though, and in those moments, she allowed herself to relax slightly, clinging to both his sword and her own just in case she fell asleep.

That night, with the scent of burnt skin still fresh in her memory, she dreamt of home. A home going up in flames. It had not been the first time her people were chased out of their houses and into the night. The first time when she was much younger, just a few years older than Squirrel was now. What was left of their tribe travelled the country like nomads, roaming the hills and woods until they joined another tribe. Together they shared a few years of peace. Until the ever-growing army of Red Paladins found them. Over the years they had grown more brutal, their methods more radical, and with that they had destroyed the entire time in one night. A night filled with fire and chaos, the air thick with smoke and the stench of burning bodies. Once Guinevere reached the village there was no way of knowing who -if anyone- had survived. There was no one left alive to tell the tale, she spent hours looking through the bodies hoping to recognize anyone and no one all at the same time and each time she did her heart broke a little more.

  
There was nothing left.

***  
  
It was morning. The first morning Lancelot woke up and felt something close to rested. He didn’t move right away, wanting to take in the peace of the quiet morning before his sore body would ruin it for the day. He also wanted control back, to know where he was and what his surroundings could offer him in case of danger. He looked up to see an old roof, then turned his head to see walls of dark wood and creaks that let in morning light. It was cold in the barn and when he turned his head to the other side, he saw that the fire had died during the night, his breath leaving a foggy mark in the air. His horse stood tall at the other side of the barn and the corner of Lancelot’s lips pulled up in the slightest hint of a relieved smile. The horse made him think of the boy though and shock shot through him as he propped himself up to look for the boy. There was pain, a lot of it, and sore muscles.  
When he found the child laying just at his feet he relaxed enough for his body to hurt less. The boy -Percival- was still asleep under a thick lush blanket Lancelot did not recognize. It didn’t look like it belonged in a barn though. Lancelot pulled his own cloak up and around him, trying to get warm without having to move just yet. He stretched his leg slightly, tapping his foot against the pile of fabric the boy was under. The boy’s nose wrinkled, and his brow furrowed as he pushed Lancelot’s foot away. The man persisted and tapped again.  
“Stop it.” The boy mumbled sleepily, stirring in the sea of fabric.  
When Lancelot didn’t stop the boy opened one eye. Lancelot was sure that if looks could kill he’d be seriously injured now. He gestured for the boy to come to him and although Percival seemed reluctant, he eventually obeyed nonetheless, taking his blanket with him, dragging it through dirt and some of last night’s supper as he went.  
“ _What_ is it?” the boy hissed, rolling his eyes as he dramatically sat down next to Lancelot.  
“Who is she?”  
Both boy and man looked at their companion, who was still (or finally) asleep.  
“Guin?” Percival asked, as if the question could be about anyone else.  
Lancelot kept his eyes on the woman as if looking away might make her do something unexpected. She looked cold, pale even compared to how he had seen her in the warm light of the fire the night before. Her face was softer, all anger and suspicion smoothed out leaving nothing but delicate features that looked like they belonged to someone less…treacherous.  
“She’s one of us.”  
Lancelot stiffened at the remark, his entire being trained to protest that very idea, and glared at Percival for those words. The boy was instantly quiet.  
“Where are we?”  
“A barn.”  
Lancelot refused to ask the question again and glared at the boy once more.  
“About half a day from where we found her. There’s a house nearby. Guin says it isn’t safe there.”  
“What happened?”  
“She helped fix you up.”   
The boy moved the blanket around him like a cloak, snuggling into it like a hood. Lancelot noticed how the boy seemed much more comfortable around him even in a matter of days. He wondered what that must feel like. To be comfortable.  
“She got us food.”  
“She’s dangerous.” Lancelot warned.  
“I think so, yes.” Percival agreed as if this was a good thing.  
“You shouldn’t trust her.”  
“She says the same thing about you.”   
Percival eyed him cheekily and Lancelot felt an unfamiliar tickle in his chest begging to be released, a light and peculiar feeling. Lancelot pushed it away, like he did any feelings he couldn’t deem useful to his cause.   
“She’s gotten into your head.” Lancelot mumbled moodily, still watching the woman who now seemed to grow restless.  
“So have you.” Percival said in that same tone and Lancelot knew the words were hers and not the boys.  
“Ssh.”  
Lancelot held up his hand, one finger ordering the boy to be quiet as the woman stirred.  
“What?”  
Percival stared at Lancelot as if he could find an answer there on his face. When he didn’t he followed his gaze.  
Lancelot was breathing fast, anticipating danger was always his first reaction to any unknown situation. His heart beat violently, which hurt most of the injuries that covered his back and chest. He watched her as if she was his opponent in a fight, taking in her every move. When her shoulders shot up suddenly the movement caused her robes to shift, revealing the hilt of his sword pressed against her chest.   
Lancelot growled inwardly, feeling vulnerable without it. He counted the ways he could take her on without it, if necessary, there were countless ways he could take her out. He was taken aback by a whimper and pulled from his violent thoughts when this time it was her turn to wake from a slumber calling out in terror.   
It wasn’t a word or a sentence, but the sound alone was enough to understand that whatever had haunted her dreams was horrifying.   
It was strange to see a creature change so rapidly, all the layers of guarded bravery were peeled away to reveal a sadness that felt strangely familiar to Lancelot. It was gone as quickly as it had occurred. Her eyes shot open and he could tell there were tears there but as she sat up and wiped her wet cheeks, she wiped away the vulnerability with it. When she realized she was being watched Lancelot quickly looked down, feeling like he had seen too much and it left him confused.  
“Are you alright?” Percival asked, genuine concern in his little voice.  
“I’m fine.” Guinevere replied coldly and got up quickly.  
Lancelot moved with her, sitting up, watching her every move. He noticed how she left their weapons on the ground as she paced the room like an animal.  
He could practically feel the tension in the air, radiating off of her. He wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words that seemed fitting, like his mind had suddenly forgotten all of them. When she turned around, all traces of tears were gone except for her eyes. Her face stern again, brow furrowed, but her eyes were swollen slightly.  
“How long has the fire been out?” she asked.  
Lancelot shrugged, the gesture pulled at his healing wounds. She turned, seemingly displeased with that answer, and moved to the wall to peer outside through a crack. Lancelot eyed the weapons again, estimating the time and effort it would cost to get to them first. Guinevere turned so swiftly, and so exact, Lancelot almost wondered if she could’ve felt what he was thinking. She was quick to step back, leaning down to take his belt and strap it around her waist.  
Lancelot studied her in the brief moment her cloak revealed her figure, it was a habit that had been instilled on him at a very young age. Always gauge your enemy. Her tried to see if there were any weapons there he had not yet suspected, like the knife she had almost stuck between his ribs days before.  
“I’m going to get firewood.” She said while she gathered the rest of his and her weapons, Lancelot made a point out of remembering where she put them on her body.  
“ _Don’t_ do anything stupid.”  
And Lancelot wondered just exactly what would count as stupid in her eyes.

***  
  
Guinevere hated herself a lot of the time. But especially now that _he_ had seen her cry. She tried to tell herself that no one could’ve seen it, that she had been quick enough to hide her face, but Squirrel’s question proved otherwise.  
It wasn’t much colder outside than it had been in the barn yet Guinevere was trembling, the memory of her dream haunting her even when she reached the house. Clinging to her soul and crawling under her skin making her to want to shed it.  
The house was dark and quiet when she entered it, its large windows making her feel uneasy as she moved through what used to be a kitchen to the fireplace in the room beyond. The house had been tempting the first time she found it, but over the years Guinevere had learnt the hard way that houses attracted attention, especially houses that looked lived in.  
She was quick to get what she needed. Firewood from the baskets by the fireplace, as much as she could carry in one go. In her haste to return to Squirrel in the barn to make sure he was safe, Guinevere forgot to check her surroundings, slipping through the door and from the house only to come to a halt just as quickly. Her view was blocked by dark robes and she didn’t have to look up to see who was in front of her.  
The weeping monk was in better shape than he had let on that morning and Guin cursed herself for not suspecting as much. Here he was, towering over her in broad daylight and Guinevere sucked in her breath as she moved her head to look up at him. Holding onto the firewood instead of reaching for a sword felt like an almost impossible act of bravery but she would _not_ let him see her scared again.  
“I told you not to do anything stupid.” She hissed in feigned indifference.  
“You have something that belongs to me.”  
The man did not move. He stood perfectly still, looking down at her with something that Guin knew could be mistaken for patience but was in fact the arrogant notion that every living thing was scared of him.  
“I’m not sure that I do.” She replied, wanting to move around and past him but he stepped in front of her again, this time she collided with his chest and the slight slip of a grunt did not go unnoticed by her. Guin looked up, their eyes met and stayed there, like glue. His hood was up again, hair pulled back. In the grey light of day his eyes seemed aglow, in stark contrast to the ashen marks that ran down his cheeks.  
“My sword.” It was as if he _tried_ to sound as ominous as possible.  
Guinevere realized she was on thin ice, but with not much to lose one made dangerous choices, so she stepped past him again, shoving him in the process. The monk’s hand caught her wrist with much more force this time than the one before and Guinevere was quick to turn. For a split second the two of them glared at each other, anticipating their next move, and as Guin twisted her wrist in his hand to turn his arm the man was quick to shift his weight and use it to turn her around and push her against the front door of the house.  
“My sword.” He repeated his demand.

***

“My sword.” Lancelot repeated his demand.  
So, _this_ was something stupid, he realized as he felt something sticky and warm run down his side. Well it hadn’t been his _plan_ to fight her, she pushed him to. He just wanted back what was his.  
“You get the sword when I know the boy’s safe with you.” The woman spat.  
There was no hint of fear there although he could feel her heart flutter where he held her own arm pressed up against her back. Her face was pressed against the door of the house now, firewood spread out at both of their feet. How was she not scared?  
“How do I know he’s safe with _you_?”  
Lancelot realized he let her taunt him into conversation, he couldn’t help himself. Was this the devil’s work?  
“I’m not the one going around killing Fey, now am I?”  
The comment hit him harder than it should even though he knew she was speaking the truth. She wasn’t wrong but why did it feel so wrong, then? He wouldn’t hurt a boy. It had nothing to do with him being Fey. His moment of doubt was enough for her to turn the tables and Lancelot was sure he would’ve been able to counter her attack if only he had the advantage of a weapon over her, like she had over him. She was quick though, small but fast and Lancelot had to stop himself from launching himself at her as the tip of his own sword pressed against his sternum. He almost smiled in admiration, _almost_.  
“You get the sword when I know Squirrel’s safe.”  
There it was, the fear. In her eyes. But it wasn’t caused by him, he realized. This realization stirred something unfamiliar in him and he dropped his hands to his sides, suddenly tired. Lancelot swallowed, his jaw clenched as he took in the woman in front of him.  
“Okay.” He said.  
“Okay?” Suspicion.  
“I won’t fight you.”  
More suspicion, this time without words as she slowly but cautiously lowered the sword.  
“If you tell me what happened this morning.”  
Lancelot was unsure if he was trying to torture her or if he was genuinely curious, in all honesty he didn’t know if he wanted to be sure.  
Her face changed as she started shaking her head, cursing in a language he vaguely recognized but didn’t understand and to his surprise she dropped his sword at his feet. At first, he was confused but by the way she turned to face him, so ready for another go, it suddenly clicked. Lancelot understood now why there was no fear before. It was like looking into a mirror. _Fighting was easy.  
_ He moved slowly to pick up his weapon, his body warning him not to do this.  
Guinevere stood tall as she pulled her own sword from its sheath, it was smaller than his but striking, nonetheless. Lancelot wondered where she would get such a weapon, or who she was to have received it. The woman stared right at him, fury setting her eyes on fire but her posture nonchalant as she cocked her head to the side.  
“You want to fight?”   
No fear in that voice either and she shrugged. _Shrugged_. Did this woman _want_ to die? He could understand what that felt like. Resignation lead to recklessness, it was what got him here in the first place. So, it was either that or she was insane, which wasn’t that hard to believe either.   
“Let’s fight.”  
The words were a challenge that made Lancelot’s heart beat faster, almost as if he was enjoying himself. He knew he was twisted for finding joy in a fight, it was the only thing he allowed himself to have.  
“As you wish.” He breathed.  
Lancelot did not grant her the courtesy of the first move, he did not wait for her to appear ready. Which was why he was slightly surprised when she was when he lifted his sword overhead and brought it down to clash with hers. The sound rung loud in the quiet forest.  
She stepped closer, forcing him back. He stepped sideways, forcing her to turn and defend her side. She parried his attacks, once, twice, a third time and stumbled only to recover herself and lash out.  
Lancelot jumped back to avoid the blade, the slightest grin playing around his lips, safely hidden in the shadow of his hood and as the woman leapt forward to reach him again, he quickly hooked his cross guard around hers, forcing her weapon from her hand. He pulled forcefully, causing her to stumble forward toward him and he clutched her shoulder.  
“I’m not leaving that boy with you, you man-blood—”  
Before she could finish her sentence with doubtless insults, he pressed his thumb into the flesh just under her joint and into the fresh wound there. She bent down, trying to get away from his painful grip, whimpering just slightly but enough for him to know the wound was still tender.  
She dropped suddenly, twisting on her feet just above the ground, sweeping her sword from the dirt and back up in one swift go. Roaring angrily as she came at him again.  
Lancelot noticed how he was slower than usual, his body protesting more and more the longer this took, which made him want to end it sooner, frustration taking over.  
She came at him boldly and he tackled her down, taking his time to walk up to her, looking down at her. She wouldn’t stop though.  
“You’ll get yourself killed.” He sighed, wanting to get her fiery spirits down.  
She got up again and they performed the same dance. Only this time she parried his attacks with more force, pushing back while Lancelot felt the small trickle of blood at his side turn into a stream. He decided to change his tactics, allowing himself to let out his frustration.  
“You’ll never win.” He growled in between attack and defense. The sentence held an eerie ambiguity.   
There was no vocal reply. Just her getting up, charging at him again. Lancelot deflected her attempts with feigned boredom. Once, twice…she roared in her own frustration now. She glared at him, her eyes seemingly wondering if he could ever be bested.  
“I’ve done this a hundred times.” He taunted.  
Lancelot met her gaze boldly and knew the words stung, making a home in her as her jaws tensed and her lips pressed together. She knew what he had meant to say. He could see it in those dark eyes, the same look she woke up with this morning. Lancelot rejoiced in being feared for just a moment. Because being feared meant he was in control of at least _one thing_ in his life.   
They circled around each other and he tried to catch his breath, his heart beating so fast it made his entire body throb and ache. Guinevere’s chest was heaving but her shortness of breath seemed to have a different cause. She was furious. The woman pounced, sword in hand and Lancelot forced himself back into action.   
_She wouldn’t stop.  
_ Her attacks were sloppy at best, but so fast and so many Lancelot’s arms started to hurt from blocking them. Her eyes were big and wild and although she fought _him_ , her mind seemed to be somewhere else.  
In a small and stupid -he had done something stupid- moment Lancelot forgot to defend his side. He could see her coming, leg up, but he was too slow, too damaged still after taking on the Trinity Guards. Her leg made contact with his side, perfectly aimed at the reopened wound. The blow caused one of his knees to buckle and the man fell.  
Lancelot looked up quickly to see where she would hit next, when he didn’t find her in front of him he suddenly felt her behind him. She tugged at his hood while her other hand pressed a small dagger to his neck. He growled and struggled but Guinevere showed she wasn’t afraid to use the blade on him, pressing it to his skin, drawing blood. She tugged at his hair painfully, forcing his head back, pressing the blade even further in his skin. Lancelot let his head fall back, panting as his side throbbed in pain, hot blood soaking his tunic. When he met her gaze there was something twisted inside of him that found the whole ordeal entertaining. He snickered darkly.  
“Do it, _demon_.” He dared her.  
She stood frozen, staring at him. Hand trembling now but the blade still pressed to his artery.  
“ _Do it_!” He snarled, wanting her to prove her true nature to him. That all Fey were monsters. That he was right. _That Father Carden was right_.  
But her hand in his hair loosened, only holding is limply now, as her other hand dropped the knife in his lap. She took a step back as if she had frightened herself, letting out a shaky breath as if she had been holding it for ages.  
Lancelot didn’t hesitate. He wouldn’t let her hurt the child. He wouldn’t let her _take_ the child. He couldn’t. And so, he scooped up the knife, reaching out to pull at her ankle. She hit the ground hard and he crawled on top of her, pressing her own knife to the soft honey skin just under her jaw, using his tired body to hold her down.

He could kill her.

He had done it a hundred times.

He _should_ kill her.

She didn’t fight him, she didn’t struggle, she looked up at him with such sad eyes and he hesitated. The Weeping Monk never hesitated.  
Before he could hate himself for the mistake, an unexpected sound was heard in the distance and the both of them tensed. Lancelot dropped the knife and pushed himself up to see what the sound was, when he looked back at Guinevere to make sure she had heard the sound too, her eyes were big with concern.  
 _“Squirrel..”_ they breathed in unison.

 _  
_***  
  
“You stupid man!” Guinevere cursed under her breath as she got up from under Lancelot, pushing him aside. She grabbed her weapons and started to run as fast as she could, back to the barn. Lancelot was close behind her, sounding a bit more out of breath than a man like him should.  
Guinevere did not look back at where the sound had come from but she could hear more of them. Twigs breaking, horses neighing, a large group of people moving. She ran while fighting back tears at the thought of anything hurting the little boy in the barn, the only Fey left in her life. She had sworn to never forsake her people again, not after…  
Lancelot reached the barn first.  
“Gather your things!” He growled as Squirrel sat up, clearly startled.  
Guin started to help the boy, handing him one of her own daggers, pressing it to his chest.  
“Take this.”  
“What’s happening?”  
“Don’t let go of it.”  
“What’s going on?!” Squirrel demanded.  
“Shut up.” Lancelot warned as he moved to his horse, readying it with swift and trained hands.  
Guinevere eyed the horse and for a brief moment she tried to estimate how hard it would be to get Squirrel and the horse out of here and leave the man behind.  
“Don’t even think about it.” Lancelot glared at her warningly.  
Both Squirrel and Guin gasped as an arrow shot past in between them. Guinevere rushed to close the barn door.  
“Those bloody Paladins!” Squirrel cursed.  
Lancelot ignored him, picking him up, groaning in the process as he put the boy on his horse. Guinevere swallowed, her heart beating painfully fast as she watched the man and his horse and it dawned upon her she would never make it out of here without similar transportation. She tensed up again at the sound of arrows hitting the door and watched as Lancelot stood at the side of his horse, both hands planted firmly against the animal, reading himself to get on its back.  
Guinevere looked back at the closed door and when she turned again the monk turned from his horse with a frustrated sigh, nodding his head in the direction of his horse. Before Guinevere could ask what he was doing he stepped back from the animal, holding one hand on its back as he faced her, offering a place on his horse.  
There was no time to question him, no time for her to decide if she trusted him. She ran forward and he helped her up before getting on the horse behind her. He kicked the animal gently and it obeyed like an old friend. Rushing out of the back of the barn and into the unknown.


	6. Hell

5.  
  
_____  
  


 _I_ _have_ _grown_ _familiar_ _with villains that live in my head_ _._

A swift escape with three people on one horse was difficult to say the least. There were arrows flying around their heads and Lancelot found himself wishing that Goliath would not have to pay for his mistakes, hoping the horse would make it out alive. He would never forgive himself if it didn’t.  
He was bent over both the woman and the boy, uncomfortably close as he rushed Goliath through the woods.  
There was no time to look for the easiest route and as branches clawed at them Lancelot saw how the woman struggled under his weight to move her cloak up and around the boy, protecting him at the cost of the skin of her own arms. She buried her face in the boy’s neck and Lancelot pressed down more, pulling at the reigns of his horse, begging for it to go even faster. He could feel her heart beat just as fast as his and the sensation resembled that of the horse’s hooves coming down on the ground time and time again. Percival was cursing excessively at the sound of arrows flying and branches breaking and for a moment Lancelot feared the boy was frightened. He tightened his grip on the reigns, his entire body sore from the fight that happened just moments ago. Just moments ago, Guinevere and Lancelot had tried to kill each other, and now he was running from the Red Paladins -again- with not only one, but two Fey.

_What was he doing?_

***  
  
Guinevere was sure the monk was pushing his horse to its limits, running faster and further than seemed possible, like he was trying to outrun more than the Red Paladins.   
When they finally slowed Squirrel protested loudly, trying to wriggle his way from her constraints. Guinevere let go of him and sat back. She could feel the warm pressure of another body pressed to hers. Too close for comfort.  
“Let me see.”   
Squirrel pushed her cloak from his face, and it fell down from his shoulders.  
“Are they gone?” he asked.  
Guin was too scared to turn her head and look around, afraid to see the man behind her.  
“For now.” He breathed.  
His voice was so close to her ear it made the hair on her neck stand up involuntarily. All of them were breathing fast, anxiety slowly changing into strange relaxation, the type that could only be felt after one realizes they got to live another night.   
Squirrel leaned back slightly, making himself more comfortable in Guinevere’s arms that were awkwardly draped around the boy. Anything to make sure she wouldn’t touch the monk’s hands, which were close.  
“That was close.” Squirrel mumbled quietly.  
The three of them were silent, the only sound coming from the horse and the forest. Guinevere could feel the man behind her shift, looking around to take in their surroundings and she did the same for the road ahead. Nothing. It was almost peaceful, _almost_.  
Guin wondered what had just happened, how they had gone from almost killing each other to running from the Red Paladins together and what this meant. Was the Weeping Monk a deserter?  
“Are you alright?”  
The monk’s hoarse voice again, right next to her ear. Guin knew the question wasn’t directed at her.  
“I’m fine.” Squirrel shrugged slightly in her arms. “Do you think they knew it was us?”  
The way the boy said the word _us_ , made Guinevere feel like an intruder.  
“I don’t know.” The man replied, honestly.  
There was something different about his voice when talking to the boy. Something softer, although she had to pay attention to hear the difference. It was more in the way he _felt_ behind her, less tense. Guinevere sat up suddenly, tense and extremely ill at ease. She could feel both boy and men look at her in surprise.  
“Your horse is tired. I should walk.” She said quickly.  
The Weeping Monk did not protest, holding Squirrel safely on the horse as she slipped out and hopped onto the ground. Guinevere felt safer there, feet on the ground, hands brushing past leaves. A steady pace. She could breathe again.

  
***

  
They spent the day on the move. Every now and then switching places. Always avoiding conversation. The only one to talk was Percival, and in some weird way Lancelot was grateful for the mindless chatter that gave him an excuse to stay silent.  
Guinevere was polite and patient with the boy, replying to his stories at times but keeping to herself most of the day. She seemed content with the silence as well.  
They walked along hills, through a grain field painted gold by the sunset and back into the woods and along a river by the time it got dark. With the setting sun the boy had grown quiet and Lancelot did not have to ask Guinevere if she was tired, he could tell by the way she looked down at her feet and moved at a slow tempo. Lancelot sighed, half in frustration but mostly because he too was tired, and stopped Goliath. Guinevere looked up at the sudden change and as he looked down at her from his horse he spoke to her for the first time since they had left the barn.  
“Come on.” He mumbled with a slight jerk of his head.  
Squirrel looked around at the sound of his voice, sleepily and smiled a little, which confused him. Guinevere hesitated, the same look on her face that she had in the barn, as if she was trying to decide if she trusted his offer. He held out his arm and she took it so he could pull her up on the horse. The boy seemed thankful, snuggling back into the woman as if they had known each other forever, and Lancelot looked out at the horizon slowly turning purple. _What was he doing?_

“He’s asleep.”  
Lancelot raised his brows, pulled from his thoughts by Guinevere’s quiet voice in front of him. The steady rhythm of Goliath’s steps had lulled the boy to sleep it seemed. Lancelot couldn’t blame him, his head had dipped more than once by now.  
“We should set up camp for the night.” She whispered.  
Lancelot stopped his horse just a little from the riverbank, where they could get fresh water but there were enough trees and nooks to provide them some kind of shelter. The two of them were quiet as he got off his horse first and took the boy from her. Lancelot had never really been around children and so he struggled to hold the boy comfortably. Guinevere was swift as always, slipping from the horse and taking the boy from him as if she had never done anything else.  
“I’ll take care of the fire.”  
The woman nodded curtly, carrying the boy to a comfortable looking bed of moss between large tree roots and stayed there.  
Lancelot turned his back on her, as if the scene was a private one, and started on the fire. He looked up at the black of night to find the moon was already up high in the sky indicating it was late. Too late to look for food. They would go to bed hungry tonight. 

  
The Weeping Monk stood by his horse, his hand running along its neck with a tenderness reserved only for the animal. It was easy to forget his hands had killed so many living things as the horse neighed contently, leaning in to his master. It nudged Lancelot with its head, as if thanking or greeting him and for the briefest of moments the man closed his weeping eyes.  
Guinevere was sitting by the fire, Squirrel not far behind her, and pulled her cloak up around her.  
“Why didn’t you kill me?”  
The man’s eyes shot open, annoyance flaring up inside of him before turning to look at the woman.  
He was silent as he walked from his horse to the fire, black robes dancing around him like night itself. His eyes glanced at Squirrel quickly before he sat down against a tree, crossing his arms over his chest, and closed his eyes.  
“Back at the barn.” Guinevere elaborated, making it clear to him she wasn’t done with this conversation. When he ignored her, she decided to try one more time.  
“You had the chance, and you didn’t. Why?”  
Lancelot was tired, his body hurt, he was sure he had lost blood today and the last thing he wanted to do right now was talk but he had a feeling she wouldn’t stop until he made her. His eyes shot open and he looked straight at her. He answered her question with a question, a trick he had used often.  
“You don’t think that if I wanted you dead, I would’ve killed you already?”   
“So, why didn’t you?” she demanded in a low hiss.  
“Why didn’t _you_?” the monk pressed back, his eyes narrowed at her.  
Guinevere look down at her hands before staring into the fire and for a moment Lancelot almost thought he had won, for now. The moment didn’t last very long.  
“First you spare the the boy, now me…” Guinevere mused.  
“That’s not…” the man interrupted quickly not liking where the conversation was going nor where it would take his mind. He fell back into his default mode, mind focused on scripture, repeating the words that were said to him so many times.   
“…We are saving souls from eternal damnation.”  
“Is that what you think?”  
“There’s always a choice to follow the path of God and find salvation.”  
Or so Lancelot hoped. Was he still on God’s path? Could he still find salvation? Did he deserve such a thing after what he had done to the Trinity Guard, after betraying Father Carden like that? He glanced at the boy nervously. So _innocent_.   
“Did you offer that choice to the villages you slayed?” her voice was cold now.  
Lancelot looked down, frustrated that he was unable to hold her gaze as her words struck something inside him that had been awakened since his conversation with the Green Knight. _Something sinful_.  
Guinevere sighed now, a sad sound.  
“How could a God want so much pain from you?”   
Lancelot looked up, confused. Her face had changed, the coldness was gone, like the warmth of the fire between them had melted it to reveal her true face. A kind one. A beautiful one. _Something sinful.  
_ “I’ve seen the wounds on your back, monk. And the scars beneath them. They’re not the Trinity Guard’s doing.”  
She held his gaze unapologetically and Lancelot suddenly felt small, his heart beating fast because the woman proved to know more about him than he had expected her to. The secret so very private and vulnerable.  
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”   
“Maybe not.” She admitted, her voice softer now. “I can’t imagine any God asking that of his children.”  
“We’re not…” Lancelot stopped himself just in time, glaring at the woman as if she alone was responsible for him giving into this conversation. He couldn’t deny she had once again coaxed him into something he had not expected to do. Her question repeating in his head until it seemed like his own. _How could a God want so much pain from you?  
_ She changed the subject as suddenly as she had brought it up.  
“You lost blood. You should rest.”  
Lancelot looked up at her questioningly again, wondering how she knew this and she tried to hide a smirk in the corner of her mouth.  
“I healed the wounds, I can unheal them.” She explained now and Lancelot realized she had known exactly what she was doing while fighting him. He was equally as annoyed as he was impressed.  
“You should sleep.” She repeated the words just like he had said them on the night they first met.   
“I won’t kill you. Not tonight.”  
He glared at her, but there was a strange kind of comradery in this gesture that confused him enough to forget about their conversation for a moment.  
“Not tonight.” He repeated back at her, half lost in thought as she turned to join the boy to sleep.

***

Guinevere woke the next day even more sore than the night before, shivering from the morning cold. She opened her eyes slowly, before moving, allowing herself a moment of peace before the day started. It was still early, the sky a dark purple with streaks of pink from the sun that was slowly waking. Squirrel had not moved from his position and was now staring straight at her. Little hands folded together under his face like a pillow.  
“What happened yesterday?” he whispered.  
Guin frowned, taking a moment of silence to gather her thoughts before answering the boy.  
“We had to run. You know this.”  
“Where were you?”  
“Getting wood for the fire.”  
“And Lancelot?”  
Guinevere narrowed her eyes at the sound of that name. It was hard for her to recognize the Weeping Monk was a real man, with a real name.  
“You tell me.” She hissed.  
“You don’t like him.” Squirrel stated.  
“I don’t trust him.”  
“He saved my life.”  
“He’s the Weeping Monk.”  
Guinevere knew she didn’t have to explain to the boy what this meant. Every single Fey knew the stories, they knew what the Red Paladin’s greatest weapon could do. Yet something inside of her didn’t want to remind the boy of it. She liked the spark of hope in his eyes and couldn’t bear to take it away from him. Thankfully she didn’t have to and as they heard someone stir behind them both Guin and Squirrel sat up, leaving their conversation for what it was. For now.

The Weeping Monk had been up for a while it seemed. This made Guinevere feel strangely vulnerable. She was surprised when he walked up to them and handed them each a small water bottle. Squirrel drank his eagerly while Guinevere eyes the monk suspiciously.  
“There’s food by the fire. We leave at sunrise.”  
She blinked at this and frowned, taking in the words as she rose to her feet.  
“We?”  
The monk turned to look at her but didn’t speak. He had a way of conveying what he wanted to say without using words.  
“And where do you suppose we go?” she demanded.  
The man looked at Squirrel, who was now happily starting on his breakfast, and back at Guinevere.  
“We can’t stay in one place.”  
“I agree.”  
“Oh, you do?” The monk said with menacing sarcasm. “We leave at sunrise.”  
He turned his back on her again. Guinevere eyes his sword at his hip, peeking out from his long cloak. She could tell he wasn’t used to being challenged, she could also tell the man had no plan. She followed him as he walked to his horse, glancing back at Squirrel occasionally. When she reached out and put her hand on the monk’s arm, he turned so quickly she stepped back.  
“He should be with his people.” Guin tried to reason. “I can take him there.”  
The man considered these words for a moment and looked at the boy by the fire while the sky was turning lighter.  
“I’m not leaving him alone with you.”  
“I won’t hurt him. You know that.”  
“Do I?” the monk glared down at her and stepped closer now, looming over her, fingers flexing just slightly before coming to rest at the hilt of his sword.  
“I’m not taking you to the Fey.” Guinevere hissed.  
“I’m not leaving the boy.”   
The man matched her tone as they stood chest to chest, staring at each other.  
“Will you two just _stop it_ already?!”  
  
Both Guinevere and the Weeping Monk broke their tensed gaze to look at the boy who was now stomping toward them from the fire, mouth still half full with meat.  
“ _Lancelot,”_ the boy made a point of speaking the man’s name again _“_ saved my life. I’m not coming with you, unless he is.”  
Guinevere pressed her lips together, swallowing the words that wanted to come out. She knew the boy was serious. She also wasn’t willing to leave a Fey child with the Weeping Monk, no matter how much she wanted to be on her own again. Safe and away from this man-blood murderer.  
She took a deep breath and stepped back and away from the man.  
“Fine.” She mumbled as she started to gather what was left of her things. “But I have some rules.”  
Both boy and man looked at her now with the same look, a mixture of annoyance and boredom, and Guinevere glared at them darkly.  
“We stop where I say, when I say.” Guinevere started, extinguishing the fire while she spoke.  
“We only travel together until the boy’s safe.” She took a bite from the meat that Squirrel left behind before continuing, pointing at Squirrel’s small cloak by the tree.   
“Get your things.” She ordered him in between her rules. Surprisingly the boy obeyed. She now pointed at the monk, walking back up to him as he stood perfectly still, watching her sum up her terms.  
“You will _not_ come after our people.” Guinevere took a step closer now, back to where they started. And although the man was much taller, she wasn’t afraid to stare up at him defiantly. She whispered the last part so the boy wouldn’t hear: “And if you draw your weapon on me one more time, I swear to The Hidden that I _will_ kill you.”  
It almost looked as if the man was grinning, but only with his eyes.  
“In return you promise to keep the boy safe?” he whispered back, something strangely vulnerable about his request. Especially after she made a stubborn point out of stating her demands.  
“The boy comes first. Always.”  
The man considered this for a moment, looking down at the ground, only looking back at her from the safety of his hood when he was ready to answer.  
“Agreed.”  
“Good.” She replied, her heart beating faster than comfortable and her mind spinning.

_What was she doing?_

***  
  
  
The Weeping Monk had always had a purpose.

Lancelot however, did not.

He watched from next to his horse as Percival and the woman walked ahead. Talking seem to come as easily as breathing to them and when the boy laughed at something she said, he could feel jealousy pull at his heart. _Something sinful.  
_ His hand tightened around the leather of Goliath’s reigns and he looked down as his feet as he walked. He had agreed to the woman’s terms because he knew he had nowhere to go. He also knew he wouldn’t leave the boy, not after all that he had risked for him.  
He was shocked to find that he no longer had interest in finding the Fey when Guinevere brought up her people in the terms of their alliance. What would Father Carden think of him now? What would Father Carden think of him at all? Lancelot’s mind raced from question to question, menacing voices haunting him. Some Father Carden’s, some his own. He had been prepared to die just days ago, but was he brave enough to live? After all that he had done and destroyed. Was there anything to live for? Would his old life take him back? Would he want it to?

_“I don’t hear anything!”_

_“Ssh.”_

Lancelot stopped walking as Guinevere and Percival had stopped ahead, standing by a large tree, it’s leaves the color of gold in the sunlight. It was a cool but gentle day. He watched, half annoyed, half curious, as Percival put his small hand to the tree. He was smirking, like a curious child, and looked almost careless.  
“Close your eyes.” He heard Guinevere say.  
Lancelot kept his distance, taking the time to check on his horse, stroking it’s neck reassuringly.  
“Listen.” Guinevere’s voice turned soft and Lancelot watched as the boy obeyed, the small smirk still on his little face. Lancelot crossed his arms.  
“Can you hear it?”  
The boy shook his head and Lancelot noticed how Guinevere took a slender twig, moving it toward the boy slowly. For a moment he wondered if she would strike him with it, he tensed up automatically. When Guinevere but the twig to the Percival’s neck he was startled at first, but started laughing immediately after.  
“Stop it!” he said playfully, pulling the twig from the woman’s hands and chasing her with it.  
“I knew you were lying!”  
Lancelot moved again, and the duo fell into step with him, the boy still laughing, the woman smiling softly as if she didn’t want anyone to see it.  
“I really wasn’t.” she replied.  
“The tree didn’t talk to me.” Percival rolled his eyes.  
Lancelot felt like an outsider all of a sudden. Where Percival had clung to him just days ago, this woman, this Fey, was stealing his little heart. Soon he’d be alone again.  
“You really didn’t listen.”  
Her voice was so much softer for Percival, he could understand why the boy preferred her over him.  
“Trees have voices.” She said, her voice smooth like velvet as she mused and the boy listened to her every word.  
“They have eyes.” She said, pointing at a birch tree ahead, Lancelot followed her finger to find the eyes she was talking about. Shaking his head at the lie.  
“They have souls, just like us.”  
 _Damned souls_ , Lancelot thought.  
“They were called Nymphs. Some say they were our ancestors.”  
Percival looked up at the trees with newfound wander, his eyes lighting up with every witchy word the woman spoke. Lancelot wanted to stop her.   
“But they’ve been trapped in the trees for a long time now.”  
Lancelot wanted to stop her, but... he knew this story.  
“When man-bloods took over our forests they retreated into the trees until they were so afraid to leave, they become one with the tree. And every year, when Autumn comes, they put a part of their souls into their leaves. Turning them all the colors of fire until they all fall down.”  
Guinevere pointed to the golden leaves at their feet and Lancelot couldn’t stop himself from looking at them. The hair on the back of his neck standing up as he remembered a different voice telling him this story. He tried to grasp the memory, but it slipped away from him.  
“Why do they fall down?” the boy asked the same question the man once asked and Lancelot felt his lips open to answer, he stopped himself when Guinevere spoke.  
“It’s the only way to join the ones they love.”  
Lancelot wanted to stop her. These stories were evil lies. The devil’s work. But his heart ached, hoping the story would bring back the memory he was so desperately grasping at. _Something sinful_.  
“I thought they just died.” Percival mused.  
“The leaves land at the right roots, at the right time, to turn into the soil that feeds another tree with new life. That’s not death. It’s love.”  
Lancelot had had enough as he let go of Goliath’s reigns and rushed to the pair, grabbing Guinevere’s elbow forcefully, pulling her back.  
“You shouldn’t fill his mind with such evil lies.”  
Guinevere glared up at him and pulled her arm free, rubbing her elbow where his hand had been.  
“They’re not lies.” She hissed back at him.  
“Do you _want_ to go to hell? Is that it?”  
She looked at him now, close to smiling but there was something very wrong there and Lancelot stepped back as if her Pagan stories could taint his already stained soul.   
“The only hell is here on earth, _weeping man_.” She said, her voice drenched in that same sadness he had seen in her eyes when he hesitated to kill her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so excited every time you leave new kudos, thank you so much for reading! Let me know what you think in the comments, I'd love to hear your thoughts.


	7. Home

6.  
  
_____  
  


_Stood on the cliffside screaming; give me a reason._

_Guinevere was home. Or at least the house she was supposed to call home.  
It had been over a year now and the walls still felt strange, the bed cold. This, she realized, was mostly her own fault. At first she had blamed her coldness on her father’s passing, but as time passed and her grief no longer seemed like a legitimate excuse she fled the house more and more.   
“You’re leaving, again?”  
_ _Fern was a tall and handsome man, with kind eyes the exact color of old moss. Everything about him was warm, from his tan skin to his amber hair. He had always been kind to Guinevere, valuing their marriage and what it meant for their people and in return Guinevere had respected him. He had been patient with her, but even kind men ran out of patience.  
_ _“Fern, I told you, my brother needs my help.”  
_ _This was a lie.  
_ _“What about your husband?” The question came out like an accusation.  
_ _Guin turned to look back at him, she tried so hard to look at him with kindness, to feel what she thought she was supposed to feel. What he wanted her to feel. His face softened at the struggle visible in her face and he walked up to her, large hands rubbing her arms in a loving gesture. Guinevere softened slightly as he pulled her in for an embrace. She could hear his heartbeat through his chest, steady and slow. Reliable, just like him.  
_ _“You know I’ll support you, but I just wish…”  
_ _“I’ll be back in a couple of days.”  
_ _“Can’t your brother help him?”  
_ _“His wife is expecting their baby any day now, you don’t expect him to…” Guinevere looked up at her husband and the man smiled kindly.  
_ _“Of course not. You are right.” He said quickly.  
_ _Of course, she was. She always was. He always agreed with her, even when he didn’t. It was hard to tell what Fern ever really wanted, besides Guinevere. This made him a soft leader. Guinevere took the reins most of the time, and he let her. Her people loved him for it and trusted him wholeheartedly. To the outside world, they were perfect.  
_ _Warm lips pressed against her forehead and she closed her eyes, trying to enjoy this moment, and in a way she did. His embrace was warm and comfortable, and his kindness was all she could’ve asked for in marriage. She had ensured her people’s safety by marrying Fern, and Fern had given her a home in return. She was content, most days.  
_ _“My brave Guin.”  
_ _Fern cupped her face in his hands, and she felt like she could drown there. But when she looked up into those kind eyes she managed to smile, a genuine smile. Maybe she could get used to this.  
_ _“So, you’ll let me go?” she said, smirking dangerously, looking for something playful in his gaze. Just a challenge, any_ real _emotion. Maybe part of her wanted him to fight for her staying home, maybe part of her wanted to see anything real from him at all.  
_ _“Have I ever held you back?” the question was suddenly sad, and Guinevere’s smile faded as she slipped from the man’s embrace to gather what she needed for her trip. As she stuffed her bag with bread and extra clothes the room changed.  
_ _“I’ll never hold you back again.”  
_ _Guinevere frowned, this wasn’t what was said in the conversation she remembered. She wanted to turn but she was frozen, her hands gripping at the bag in her hands as the scent of smoke crept up on her.  
_ _“You’re free now.”  
_ _The scent was joined with heat and Guinevere’s breathing quickened as her back burned. She gasped and looked down at her feet, flames licking at her boots. She was pinned in place as the room filled with smoke, a soft sob escaped from her lips as panic took hold of her body. This wasn’t what she had wanted. If she had only known before she left..  
_ _“Like you always wanted.”  
_ _The words were filled with hate now, his voice darker than she had ever heard it and when she was finally released by whatever was holding her Fern was no longer there. Handsome features replaced by charred skin, eyes replaced by holes that burned like embers, black charcoal hands clawing out at her. Guinevere stumbled back and screamed._

 _  
_ The scream died on her lips, the sound of a muffled cry the only thing released as Guinevere shot up, shaking to what seemed to be her very core. Breathing was hard and for a moment she was startled by the fire next to her, which caused her to jump slightly. Her chest was heaving, she could feel this because her hand was pressed against it, a tight fist holding onto the ring that was hanging there. She could swear she felt the gold _burn_ in her palm. Cold sweat made her shiver now that the heat of the fire from her dream was gone and she only now realized she was not alone.  
  
The Weeping Monk was looking at her, his head cocked to the side, half his face hidden in the safe shadow of his hood. A hint of curiosity in his weeping eyes but he remained silent and as if he decided to grant her some privacy, he averted his gaze and focused on the fire instead.  
Guinevere took the moment of privacy gratefully and swallowed as she took in a deep steadying breath, rubbing her face with both hands as she shook her head, fighting back tears. It was strangely humiliating to have a nightmare in front of your enemy and this feeling was slowly dawning upon her as the storm inside of her subsided. She cleared her throat.  
“I’ll take over.” She wanted her voice to be low and strong, but it betrayed her as she offered to keep watch.  
The man did not look away from the fire as he shook his head and spoke, his voice just louder than a whisper.  
“Sleep. You look like you need it.”  
Guinevere’s right brow shot up, unsure if this was a mocking insult or if the Weeping Monk could really show mercy. She ran a hand through her hair to find it still shaking as she joined him in staring at the fire. They had traveled together for days now and Guinevere noticed how he always stayed on the other side of the fire. As if joining her and Squirrel at the same side meant something more than just that.  
“I can’t.” she admitted for no reason she could imagine, rubbing her brow as a headache started there.  
Silence. Guinevere could feel eyes on her and although staring into the fire did nothing to calm her down, she could not bring herself to look into that face either.  
“What’s on the necklace?”  
Her eyes shot up and met his over the fire that sparked while he was poking it with a stick. Guinevere looked down at her hand and moved quickly to put the necklace back safely within the confinement of her tunic. The Weeping Monk nodded slowly, as if she had somehow answered his question and he understood. Guinevere felt as if she had given away one of her secrets and she wanted to get back at him for it, answering his question with one of her own.  
“What’s with the eyes?”  
He didn’t look away, he didn’t move, but those very eyes looking at her were harboring a storm. When he looked into the fire again, she knew he refused to answer her just like she had him. They were stuck once more.  
Guinevere needed to move, she needed the cold of fresh air and she needed to get away from the smell of fire. It seemed strange to her that with all this forest surrounding them she still felt like she had nowhere to go. She got up quickly and the monk’s head shot up, his hood falling back a little to reveal his face.  
“I’ll get more wood.” She said as the fire in front of her crackled, as if laughing at her. “For the fire.”  
He didn’t speak, his eyebrows moved a little as if he was telling her to do whatever she wanted. She did.   
Rushing away from the fire and into the dark of night. They had been following the river and it welcomed her with its cool damp air and Guinevere felt like she could finally breathe. Faster and deeper until she was gasping, the sound of water offering her the mercy of hiding her wheezing. She felt like breaking as she sunk to her knees at the riverbank.   
She was unsure what upset her more, the vivid memory of home or the guilt that haunted her every day since she had lost it. Breathing hurt, but she welcomed the pain. It was punishment for what she had done. She had turned her back on her people when they needed her most, and she had to live bearing the consequences. Guinevere wanted to cry but the tears wouldn’t come, she was unworthy of their relief, so instead she crawled to the water and washed her face. She could tell by the temperature of the river that winter would be coming soon, they were traveling toward it. The icy water on her face calmed her down, until it hurt her fingers, cold creeping up on her like a ghost. Guinevere looked back at the faint glow of the fire, shadows dancing amongst the trees. She had hidden behind the luxury of running from the past, maybe it was time to stop running. Maybe there could be healing in punishment.

***  
  
She returned without wood, which didn’t surprise him because the fire was not in need of it. She moved slow, deliberately, maybe even careful and he observed her as she passed her place by the fire, stepping into his orbit. He would’ve felt threatened if it wasn’t for her downward gaze and slumped shoulders, her delicate fingers were nowhere near a weapon, instead they were playing with something shiny. Shimmering silver slithering around her fingers like a snake and at the end of it swung a circle of gold. He eyed the glistening object as she came to a halt, holding out the necklace like a peace offering.  
“It’s a wedding band.”  
The words surprised him as much as the sound of her voice. There was no malice there, nothing of the defiant spirit that usually inhabited her words. This voice had been reserved for Percival alone. Lancelot did not know how to reply in a way that wouldn’t immediately cause a fight, so he remained silent as he took in the words. His first instinct to ask her who would be mad enough to marry her, but he knew by the sound of her voice that this was wrong. She had come to him in peace, or at least something resembling it.  
The woman sat down now on his side of the fire, closer than before, the necklace in the palm of her hand. From where he sat Lancelot could tell the gold was molded into small twiglike shapes, dancing around each other forming a braid. A traditional Fey wedding band. He knew this from what little was left of memories of his early childhood. Once his mind had settled and he was focused more on her actions than her words, his own words seemed to come more easily, eyes still fixed on her hand.  
“Where is he?”  
He had a feeling he already knew the answer.  
“Dead.”  
He looked up and although he expected her to make a hateful remark on the cause of his death, which Lancelot could guess, she did not. This surprised him. He studied her face as she turned it to stare at the fire once more, trying to work out the complexity there but unable to do so.   
In a lot of ways, people were like books no one had ever taught him to read. He had never seen such complexity in Father Carden, the man was usually disappointed or angry. There was not much in between.  
“A fire.” She mumbled, and Lancelot wondered for a moment if she was still talking to him. When he realized she was, he felt lost.  
“I should’ve been there.”  
The words poured out of her like water now and although Lancelot had no idea how to reply, she seemed to find something in his silence.  
“If I could’ve just…” she looked at him now, as if for the first time realizing he was a man instead of a monster and Lancelot couldn’t look away.  
“I could’ve gotten them out of there. But I didn’t.”  
Lancelot knew most humans would sympathize with the other. Normal humans would lie to make others feel better. He had seen this before, even among his Red brothers. He had read about it in scripture. But Lancelot did not know how to do this. He tried to decipher the story instead, like scripture.  
“Why not?”  
The woman did not look pained by his question nor did she retort angrily like she normally did to his questions, so Lancelot waited patiently for a reply. She looked at him but seemed to be somewhere else, like his question had triggered one of her own.  
“I was selfish. I ran from my responsibilities and my people died because of it.”  
The words unfolded as carefully as if they had just dawned upon her.  
“I hardly think you’re the only one who could’ve saved them.” Lancelot said bluntly.  
He had not meant his words as an insult although he realized when the words came out they sounded exactly like one. The woman scoffed and -to Lancelot’s surprise- was not offended.  
“I guess I deserve that.”  
“Deserve what?”  
“Punishment for what I did.”  
This was something he understood. Lancelot knew what that felt like, he carried the scars of his guilt on his back. This was her penance, he realized, and he was her whip. This stirred something in him that he was unfamiliar with, causing him to utter words that felt strange but also true.  
“Maybe God spared your life for a reason.”  
He had not spoken freely like this, without second thought, in so long it felt dangerous. _Something sinful.  
_ It was the woman’s turn to look at him in confusion now, her eyes searching, brow furrowed like it was when she was angry but there was no resentment there.  
“Your God seems very cruel.”  
“It can seem that way.” Lancelot found himself agreeing seeing the circumstances his God had left him in, averting his eyes to stare at the fire while in the corner of his eye he could see she did the same. They sat in silence like that for a while, the only sounds coming from the fire and a night owl in the tree above them and it was oddly comfortable, easier than words.  
“So, will you tell me about the eyes?” she tried, something playful in her voice. His heart skipped a beat, from that sound or the question, he did not know.  
She looked at him with friendly defiance and Lancelot had to remind himself of Father Carden’s words, that demons could be all things seemingly good. Kind. Forgiving. Beautiful. Treacherous.  
The way her brief kindness made him want more of it started a war inside of him, tearing him apart from the inside out. But he was demon too, was he not? What harm could it do for her to know? Was he afraid what she might think? Was he afraid that she would _accept_ him? She couldn’t. She wouldn’t after what he had done to her people. _Their_ people. _No_ , hers. Or was he afraid of how acceptance would make him feel? He was so close to telling her the truth…

***  
  
There was something treacherous about nighttime. When everything was dark except for what the fire chose to show you. When reality seemed to merge with the realm of dreams. Witching hour must have been upon them by now, and the hour did strange things to Fey and humans alike. There was a strange sense of security in the air, that smelled of fire and pine and sweet decaying leaves. Guinevere found herself brave in this silence, breaking it with a question.  
“So, will you tell me about the eyes?”  
The question had been on her mind since the night they met, but she had never wanted to indulge the Weeping Monk with her curiosity. But this man here next to her was not entirely the Weeping Monk. This man was something else…she could feel it. Witching hour had a way of revealing the truth, if she could just see clearly enough. Their eyes locked and she could tell how his jaw tightened and relaxed and he was about to speak when…  
“They’re here!”  
The cry was loud and desperate and broke her heart. Squirrel sat up, leaves in his wild hair, little chest heaving so fast Guin thought he might explode.   
“The Paladins, they’re here!”   
Squirrel looked around as if he was looking for someone, still sobbing as his hands moved through the dirt as if he just wanted to hold on to anything that was real. She was quick to rise and rush around the fire and toward the boy.  
“It’s okay.” She got on her knees and pulled the child to her chest.  
Squirrel struggled at first, tension still taking hold of his body but as Guinevere refused to let go of him, he relaxed. The boy had been so brave for days they had all but forgotten he was just that, a boy. The world was unfair like that.  
“Ssh. You’re safe. It was a dream.”  
Her hand ran through his soft hair, plucking the leaves and twigs from it. She looked at the man across the fire now suddenly resentful. _His_ people caused this. All this pain and death and terror, even amongst her people’s youngest. _He_ had caused this. He sat frozen across the fire as if he understood this, staring at them with those weeping eyes. And just like that, witching hour was over and the cruel and cold morning came.

***

  
“I’m tired.” Percival’s voice was still sad even hours after his nightmare.  
“I know.” Guinevere replied.  
“I’m hungry.”  
He heard her sigh from the other side of his horse, the sound was one of frustration, but she did not get angry. She was just silent. Lancelot decided silence was worse than anger. Anger he understood.  
The woman had not spoken to him all morning and Lancelot was confused why this bothered him. Maybe because she had coaxed his words out of him, made him feel like sharing his secrets was a safe thing to do, just to turn her back on him like he was the monster in this story. His hand tightened around Goliath’s reins until his knuckles turned white.  
“We’ll stop.”  
He heard her promise the boy and stopped walking, suddenly irritated. He stepped forward to look at the duo and the sight of Percival softened him temporarily but when his eyes reached Guinevere his jaw tightened, and his eyes narrowed.  
“No.” He stated bluntly, ignoring the terms of their agreement.  
She looked at him incredulously, a single sharp eyebrow raised, and he noticed how her hand automatically hovered over the hilt of her sword, just over her hip. He recognized the gesture all too well.  
“We’ll stop.” She said again, louder this time, her eyes boring into his as if she was trying to make a point. Lancelot ignored it and turned to resume walking, pulling Goliath with him.  
“Not this again…” he heard Percival mumble as the two of them started walking again.  
“I said,” she started, her voice cold as she reached out for Goliath’s reins and took them in her hand. Lancelot studied the cuts on the back of her hand, which was just above his now.  
“We’ll stop.”  
Lancelot was tempted to pull his dagger out of its sheath and press it to the soft part of her neck where her jaw met her ear but stopped himself just in time. Instead his free hand was quick to close around her wrist, pulling it from his horse forcefully. He did not let go as she glared up at him.  
“Look around.” He hissed, his face dangerously close to hers now and it still got to him how there was no fear there, not even when he knew he was hurting her. He continued, his voice low because he didn’t want to upset the boy any further than he already was but he wasn’t going to lie either. “There is no cover, it’s a clear day, the sun is high in the sky and we crossed a trading route just this morning. We stop now, we’ll get seen.”  
Guinevere pulled her arm from his hand and Goliath moved restlessly between them.  
“Well _I’m_ not the one they’re looking for.”  
She was right and she knew this. Lancelot knew this too, but he wasn’t willing to show it.  
“They’re looking for the boy too.” He snarled.  
This seemed to catch her attention as she rubbed the skin of her wrist where he had held her.  
“I agreed to help keep him safe. Stopping now isn’t safe.”  
“He’s exhausted.” Her voice was softer now and Lancelot had a feeling she wasn’t only speaking for the boy. He looked back at Percival, who was looking around sheepishly, his eyes swollen with sleep. Lancelot sighed, a long and loud noise in the silence between them and handed her Goliath’s reins. Glaring at her warningly before walking up to the boy and picking him up without warning.  
“Hey! What are you…” Percival protested and Lancelot rolled his eyes. Over the time they had spent he had grown to like the boy, but he could be difficult.  
“Put me down!”  
Lancelot could feel Guinevere’s eyes on him as he put the boy on top of his horse, but he ignored her. He didn’t care what she thought, they needed to keep moving.  
“Sit still.” He ordered quietly as he went through one of the saddle bags by Percival’s legs.  
“But I’m…” Lancelot knew exactly what the boy was going to say and shut him up by giving him what he wanted, which was food.  
“Hungry.” Lancelot finished for him. “We know.”  
The man walked back around to take the reins from Guinevere, who let go of them quickly, looking at him as if he had just ruined her day.  
“What?” Lancelot asked as he continued walking, picking up his pace now that he did not have to take Percival’s short legs into account.  
“He can sleep on there.”  
Guinevere looked back and up to see Percival was quite content with this new turn of events and but still eyed him angrily. Lancelot knew the woman was tired too, he had seen her yawn more than once already. A part of him liked to punish her for what she had done that night, a different and stranger part wanted to give in and take a break, partially -but not entirely- because he was tired too.   
“Is this rabbit?” the boy mused from Goliath’s back, stuffing his face with the last of Lancelot’s provisions.  
“Squirrel.” Lancelot replied.  
“Nice.” Guinevere shook her head, picking up her own pace so she did not have to walk beside him any longer.

***  
  


Guinevere played with the ring around her neck, absentmindedly, as she walked. Her feet hurt, her legs protested with every step and her head was throbbing but her mind forgot all of that when thinking of home. How her brother’s baby never had the chance to be born, how she would never see him as a father. How she had never given Fern a real chance, no matter how hard he tried. How her father had asked her to do this one thing to join their tribes in peace, and she had failed him.  
“How’d you know we have to go north?”  
Guinevere shook her head as if she could rid herself from her obsessive thoughts that way, looking up at Squirrel, who looked more rested now. She quickly glanced at the Weeping Monk beside the horse, his gaze was fixed upon the ground, watching his own feet move, one before the other.  
“I don’t know of anyone of us going north.” Squirrel continued.  
“We were planning on going north.” She answered, trying to hide the pain in her words.  
“But there’s a lot of Paladin scum up north.” Squirrel spat and Guinevere couldn’t help but chuckle at the pure hate in that little voice.  
“Sorry.” Squirrel added quickly, glancing at the black hood beside him.  
“There is.” Guinevere intervened quickly, not wanting the boy to apologize for his words to the Weeping Monk.  
“But they’re moving south into Fey territory. It wouldn’t be safe to stay there.” Guinevere realized the error in her words, she spoke as if the plan was still there. As if there were still people to keep safe, her heart stopped.  
“It wasn’t safe.” She corrected herself.  
This silenced the boy for a while. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, the boy seemed to be lost in thought.  
“So how do we know there’s Fey there?”  
“I’ve been told Fey tribes have gathered to leave Britannia.” Guinevere said, carefully choosing her words.  
“Rumours.” The Weeping Monk mumbled from the other side.  
“They’re _not_ rumours. Just because your red brothers are stupid enough to let us escape.”  
Squirrel chuckled now, and Guinevere smirked.  
“ _Some_ of you, maybe.” The Weeping Monk replied darkly, and the comment actually hurt. So much so Guinevere withdrew into herself.  
“You mean the rumours of the Wolfblood Witch?” Squirrel kept going, seemingly unfazed by the monk’s cruelty. Guinevere did not reply, her mind racing with the same obsessive thoughts.  
“She’s my friend you know.” Squirrel said, his voice somewhere between pride and happiness.   
“If anyone can help us, it’s her.”  
Guinevere tried to smile reassuringly but failed miserably as she patted Squirrel’s leg. She was unsure if there really was such a thing as a Wolfblood Witch, and if there was, if a little boy could truly be friends with someone like that. But then again, the boy had more unlikely allies.  
“Of course.” She mumbled, not convinced. “We just have to go up north.”  
“Up north.” Squirrel repeated hopefully, smiling wide. And Guinevere decided there and then, at the sight of that smile, she would give her life to save the next generation of Fey from extinction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello new readers, thank you so much for leaving kudos and taking the time to comment on this story. It's what keeps me writing at this rate, so don't hesitate to let me know what you think and keep me motivated to write so much because I LOVE IT. This chapter was a little slower but I wanted to get some of that in there before the actions picks back up in the next few chapters....you guys better prepare yourselves!


	8. Gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry in advance for this chapter.

7.  
  
_____  
  


_We carry on through the storm, tired soldiers in this war_

Guinevere was watching the Weeping Monk as he, in turn, watched Squirrel rummage through his saddle bags. If looks could kill, she was sure the boy would have died at least six deaths today.   
“ _What_ are you doing?” the man hissed.  
Guin was silent, like she had been for the entire afternoon, until it turned dark and she only spoke to tell them they were stopping soon. This time the monk had not protested, which resulted in them finding a place alongside the same river they had been following for days now.  
“I’m looking for food.”  
Guinevere busied herself with the fire, leaning in to blow at the embers which lit up at her doing so, radiating heat, warming her cold nose.  
“You ate it.”  
“Was that _all_ of it?” Squirrel uttered in pure disbelief, his voice sounded as if he blamed the man it and he kept looking through the bags.  
“Stop it.” The man ordered and Guinevere looked up only to check if he posed any real threat to the boy. When she saw he was still slumped back against a tree, she relaxed but only slightly.  
“You’ve got _a lot_ of weapons.”  
She couldn’t help but smile a little as Squirrel’s words, the boy was so persistent, ignoring any sign that would frighten any other child. She admired him.   
“Are you sure you’re really a monk?”  
Guinevere eyed Squirrel as he pulled out what looked like a small axe, admiring it, turning it in his hands. The monk moved restlessly.  
“You look more like a knight..” Squirrel mused, nodding to himself. “Fight like one too.”  
“I am not a knight.” The man replied, his voice sounded bored but there was something else there too, a hint of amusement. Guinevere looked at him and could only see the glint of his eyes as her fire grew, illuminating their faces.   
“I am.” Squirrel announced proudly, putting the axe back where he found it.  
This peaked the man’s interest as well as Guin’s. She poked the fire slightly as she sat down, looking at the boy as he joined her by the fire.  
“You’re a knight?” The Weeping man said bluntly, crossing his arms over his chest.  
“Why, yes, I am.” The boy replied, unfazed. His cheeks flushed slightly. “The Green Knight knighted me himself.”  
Guinevere’s heart skipped a beat at that but soon realized the story was too rich to be true. The Green Knight was well-known through almost all Fey tribes. Guin knew her oldest brother had fought alongside him once.  
“The Green Knight..” she started as she sat up now and she could see, in the corner of her eye, how the man tensed again.  
“… _knighted_ you?”  
Guinevere almost felt sorry as the boy’s face fell and he looked down at his dirty hands, playing with a stick.  
“Before he died.”  
“He’s dead?” Guin’s eyes grew big at this terrible news, a shiver running up her spine. She could feel the Weeping Monk’s eyes on her, staring, and she was afraid to ask how he had died. When she felt brave enough to meet the man’s gaze, she saw her answer right there.  
“You killed him?” she snarled.  
He just looked at her, face blank, as if he was tired. Tired of her maybe, tired of life, Guin could hardly tell. But the sight of it didn’t sit right with her.  
“Did you kill him?” she asked again, through gritted teeth.  
Squirrel looked from her to the man and back, eyes big and round and all pride was gone from them. The boy looked afraid for the first time while awake.  
“Would it matter if I did?”  
Guinevere wasn’t sure what her answer to that was. She wasn’t sure of much really, only that a small part of her hope had died with the knowledge that one of the Fey’s strongest warriors was no longer alive. It was too much to look into that tired face, she rolled her eyes and looked away, to the river that gently hummed beside them. She got up.  
“I’ll find something to eat.” Guin said to Squirrel, patting his shoulder gently. “You still got that knife, little knight?”  
The boy looked up at her and nodded solemnly, his hands reaching for it at his hip.  
“Good. You keep an eye on your pet. If he gets too close, stab him. He’ll live.”

***  
  


The woman had returned with a handful of bright coloured berries and strange looking nuts for the boy and herself, and nothing for him. Lancelot couldn’t exactly say he minded, since he wouldn’t trust her choice in either of them. Their evening was quiet, just the way he liked it. He didn’t need a Fey judging him for what he had or had not done. Everything he had done was in service of his God, he had no regrets.   
Not _really_.   
_Maybe_ a few.   
Maybe _a lot_.   
He shook his head to rid himself of the voices that crept up on him and watched as Guinevere twirled a knife in her hand, showing the boy how to do the same. They were quiet, like they didn’t even need words. But the boy’s eyes gleamed with admiration as he looked at the woman.  
And there it was again, a faint hint of jealousy and a vivid fear of loss. If they were competing over the boy’s attention, Lancelot knew he’d lose time and time again. But why did he want to win? Why did this boy mean so much to him? Why was he looking for recognition in a Fey boy not even half his age?

  
  
It was somewhat of a miracle Lancelot had fallen asleep before anyone else and that sleep had been kind to him for once, however short lived. He did not remember falling asleep, he did not remember dreaming, instead he woke to the sound of a crackling fire and the leaves rustling around him. They smelled sweet in their autumn graves and Lancelot thought of the story Guinevere had told Percival as he looked up at an almost full moon, shining through balding branches. One of his hands started to wander, slipping out from the robes wound tightly around him and to the cold, wet ground, finally making contact. It still welcomed him home, just like when he was little. Careful fingertips ran along narrow veins on the moist leaf, afraid to reach out beyond the simple feeling of its texture on his skin. _Something sinful.  
_ Lancelot was quick to clear his throat and pull back his hand when he felt _something_ reaching back. An answer to his call. He had called out to God like that so many times, and he could only feel darkness. He had not even realized he was reaching out to something now and he could feel it’s answer tingle in his fingertips, an electric feeling that ran up his arm.  
He sat up straight and he could swear that his heart had stopped beating, only to return with a violent drum. He was quick to look around, scan his surroundings, like he was taught to do. Always on guard, always ready.  
Percival was asleep, close by the fire, still clutching the knife he had been practicing with. He looked younger when he was asleep, and Lancelot found himself glad to see that his eye was slowly healing. This feeling was unfamiliar to him and made him restless, but not as restless as the absence of their third companion. And so, he got up.

He was unsure how he knew exactly where to go but he found her by the river, far enough from the fire to be hidden by the dark shadows of the trees. The moon reflected off her dark hair and for the first time Lancelot thought she looked unhuman. He wanted to speak, to offer to take over her watch, but the same strange sensation that had told him exactly where to go to find her told him to be silent. Lancelot obeyed. She didn’t move much, he could see how her knees were pulled up to her chest as she sat on a rock by the water and how her face was turned up to face the moon. Her skin looked paler now, more silver than its usual gold. He cocked his head to the side as he tried to figure out what that feeling was that kept creeping up on him. It felt like the cold, but less uncomfortable, creeping up your spine and into your bones.  
He could see the shimmer of something shiny, like water catching the light and his eye was drawn to it. A strange pattern of water moved along the rock and when he looked closer he realized the water was actually moving _up_ the rock, instead of down. He followed it’s winding trail and his heart stopped for the second time that night. Silver slivers of water, clear and sparkling, found their way up to Guinevere’s hand, and as the first strand reached her skin it curled around her finger like a vine. Lancelot was torn between asking God for forgiveness for this woman and wanting to know exactly what she was doing. He was so torn, in fact, that he felt nauseous, like two halves of him were being pulled apart. Lancelot had not noticed he had taken steps forward until a branch under his foot cracked and the water that had hugged her fingers was now running its natural course down the rock, retreating back to the river. She turned as quickly at the sound of him and looked startled, like he had caught her off guard, which he knew was _almost_ impossible. He had so easily forgotten _what_ she was, but in this ghostly light it was hard not to see her true nature. Why did it not bother him as much as he knew it should? He eyes her suspiciously, afraid she might use her sorcery on him again the way she had done the night before, when he was willing to tell her his secrets.  
“You shouldn’t do that.” He warned, unpleasantly surprised by the unexpected croak of his voice.  
Her face did not flush in shame, like he had expected it to. Her eyes instead seemed determined and she smiled, only slightly. Not a friendly smile.  
“It’s not natural.” Lancelot felt the need to explain, this seemed to amuse the woman even more. She looked down at her hand as if it wasn’t her own and then raised it, turning it slowly as if she was seeing it for the first time.  
“It is to me.”  
She turned from him, looking up at that same moon again. He could see her shoulders rise and fall with a sigh and when she looked back around her eyes were sad. All determination had vanished, like it had the night before. He recognized that look, it made him feel safe. He shouldn’t feel that way. _Something sinful_.  
“Why do you hate us?”  
The question held no judgement, only a broken curiosity. Lancelot stood very still, as if moving only proved her power over him. A desperate part of him asked God for help. God did not answer, so Lancelot did.   
“I don’t hate you.”  
This was true. Painfully so. For her and the Fey.  
The woman turned her back on him again, she was silent and for the first time her silence was more unnerving than her words.   
“He told me all Fey are brothers.” His voice betrayed him again.  
Guinevere turned, this time entirely, crossing her legs as she looked at him. Dark eyes willing him to go on. Lancelot was aware he was playing with fire, but he needed some relief of this burden that had been on his shoulders for days now.  
“Your Green Knight. He told me all Fey are brothers.”  
“I’ve been told he’s very wise.” She said quietly.  
“Is it true?”  
It was her turn to look at him suspiciously now and Lancelot withdrew in his hood, quickly looking down as if she could see what he was really asking right there on his face. She probably could. She was silent again, uncomfortably so, and after a while Lancelot could no longer take this deafening silence. He looked back up and she was in front of him, her eyes searching his face.  
“We take care of our own.” She said, in obvious agreement with the knight.   
She was so close Lancelot could see freckles on her small nose. There was a strange sense of tension in the air around them, like a sense of danger but different.   
“Even if they’ve done terrible things?”  
Lancelot balled his fists, surprised to hear his own voice, the question had escaped from him without his permission and he cursed internally only to apologize to his God right after, begging for forgiveness. He got it in the most unexpected of places.  
“Always.” Her voice was determined again, the word almost challenging, as if she would not be thrown off the faith in her people by her enemy.   
She could not have been more wrong about his motives. However sinful they might have been, they had not been malicious. Lancelot _just_ _needed to know._ But something had shifted again, like a door opening to let cold air into a warm room. Her voice the cold wind that changed all.  
“I’m going to catch some sleep. I’ll hunt in the morning. We leave at sunrise.”  
She pushed past him and Lancelot was quick to step back to avoid impact, he nodded curtly as if their conversation had ended. When he turned to follow her back to camp he stopped, glanced back at the rock and then at the woman who took quick and certain strides back to the fire.  
“I didn’t.” the words escaped from him again, the demon in him betraying him again.  
When she stopped in her tracks it felt like a reward to the demon in him, but the monk clenched his jaw to keep more words from coming out.  
“What?”  
“I didn’t kill him.”  
She blinked, it happened so fast he could’ve missed it if he wasn’t studying her every move. Her eyes fluttered quickly, eyeing him from top to bottom and back with something new there but it was gone as quickly as it had occurred. Something Lancelot couldn’t help but want to see again.

***

Guinevere felt betrayed by the night and how it revealed a man to her, only to wake up to a monster again the next morning. When she woke this morning she was happy to find both her companions still asleep. She tried to connect to her surroundings, to the Hidden, to nature, to find out what they wanted from her but there was nothing there but confusion.  
Guinevere was up before sunrise that morning, like she had intended to, to hunt while most animals were still blissfully unaware of her presence. She also found it comforting to be awake before anyone else, finding the world strangely peaceful in these few quiet hours. She noticed that the fire had died during the night, most likely when the monk had fallen asleep on his watch, but she decided it was safer for her to leave it like that until she got back. The two of them would not attract as much attention that way, and she really did not feel like waking either of them up just yet.  
Mornings were getting colder with winter approaching and Guinevere decided to keep moving to keep her body warm, walking briskly as her eyes scanned her surroundings for anything other than _squirrel_. She rolled her eyes at the thought, refusing to allow the grin that pulled at the corner of her lip to form. The thought was gone quickly when she heard something rustling in the leaves, like something was digging there. She smirked and lowered herself, drawing her small bow as a coat of red fur wiggled at the foot of a tree. A fox. They would not be hungry today. Guin bit her lip in concentration, moving slow and deliberate, pulling the bow until her hand rested firmly at her cheek. The secret was to hold your breath until after the shot. She narrowed her eyes, a slight feeling of victory already bubbling up inside of her. She told herself to be patient, to wait for _just the right time…_

Her hand let go of the arrow unintentionally as a sharp pain shot through the back of her head, the fox looked up at her, startled, as her vision turned blurry and as it ran from her, everything went black.   
  
  
***  
  
  
Lancelot woke to the feeling of warmth on his cheek and was surprised that when he opened his eyes he was greeted by the bright morning light. The sun was already up, peering through the trees. He rubbed the sleep from his face as he sat up, groaning quietly, his entire body stiff. He could tell the fire had been out for a while now, which explained his sore muscles. Next to him, just within arms reach, lay a small bundle of robes.   
“Percival.” Lancelot said quietly to wake the boy. When the boy only stirred he reached out, patting his back.  
“Percival, wake up.”  
The boy groaned grumpily, mumbling something about being hungry as he woke up reluctantly. Lancelot did not reply to the boy as he took in the rest of camp. Something felt wrong. His brow furrowed as narrowed eyes looked at the fire again and then at the trees surrounding them. There were birds chirping, the river still humming contently and there was no wind. A peaceful morning.  
“Where’s Guin?”  
Percival voiced the question that was on Lancelot’s mind. Lancelot looked up again, calculating exactly how long the sun had been up already. It had been too long. Guinevere had said she would hunt at night so they could leave at sunrise. Sunrise was long gone.  
“Lancelot, where’s Guin?” the boy repeated with slight panic in his voice. Lancelot held up his hand to silence the boy, listening to the peaceful song of the forest again. He could hear no one, nothing except for the fast breaths of the boy next to him.  
“Stay here.” Lancelot got up and the boy did the same.  
“I’ll come with you.”  
“Stay. Here.” The man looked down at the boy warningly, the boy frowned but listened as Lancelot started to move around the camp.  
“Her things are still here.” He heard the boy from behind him, when he looked back, he could see how Percival held her elegant sword.  
“Stay.” Lancelot warned again as the sense of danger grew stronger within him and he rushed out of their small camp and into the woods. He was unsure what exactly drove him to search for her, a mix of fear and anger maybe, growing stronger the longer he looked but could not find her. He moved farther away from their camp, even farther than he felt comfortable with, but there was nothing there. No sounds, no trail, no scent. Which way would she have gone? Did he remember her scent? Would he recognize it? His mind raced back to the night before. To the way he had felt safe, knowing he shouldn’t. The way his own body betrayed him by speaking when his mind did not want to. A sudden sense of betrayal washed over him so violently he rushed back to the camp in anger. For a moment he feared he would find it empty, that maybe this was all some plot to take the boy from him. But when he reached the camp the boy was still in the same place he had told him to stay, looking up at him with large eyes.  
“Did you find her?” he asked as his hands clutched the hilt of her sword. He suddenly seemed so small.  
“She left.” Lancelot growled.   
“No, she didn’t.” Percival said.  
“She left us. She’s gone.”  
“She wouldn’t.” Percival said again, his voice slowly growing louder.  
“She’s gone, Percival. I’ve looked. She’s nowhere to be found. She left.”   
Lancelot was aware of the harshness of his tone as his voice grew louder too, willing the boy to stop asking questions Lancelot did not want answers to. The woman was a demon, playing devilish tricks on his mind to make him stray from the path of God and when he had indulged the thought of trusting her she had turned on him, just like she had done the night before. She had toyed with him and he had let her.  
“She wouldn’t go, Lancelot. Something must’ve happened!”   
The boy moved now, quickly, running around the camp aimlessly, looking out into the woods but there were only trees beyond. He put his little hands to his face, cupping them at his mouth and Lancelot’s heart dropped.  
“Guin!” the boy yelled at the top of his lungs and Lancelot was quick to pull him back, turning him toward him with such force the boy glared up at him.  
“Stop it, you fool!”  
The boy pulled free from his grasp and repeated his actions.  
“Guin!”  
Lancelot pulled the boy back again, holding him to his frame, quickly putting his hand over the boy’s mouth.  
“Shut up, you’ll get us killed!”  
The boy struggled against Lancelot’s grip but the man did not let go. He would not risk both of their lives just because the woman left. The boy kept struggling as Lancelot tried to make him see that Guinevere had left them, so he decided to change his strategy.  
“We’ll wait until midday. If she doesn’t return, we leave.”  
Lancelot carefully removed his hand from the boy’s mouth, testing if he would make a fuss again. When he didn’t, he loosened his grip and the boy pushed the man’s arms off of him and pulled free from his embrace.  
“She wouldn’t…” the boy said, tears staining his cheeks now, not because he was sad but because he was angry. Lancelot knew what that felt like, he did not want to feel it ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you I was sorry! I'm working on what comes next AS WE SPEAK, so I'm hoping that you won't have to deal with this anxiety for too long...or maybe things will only get worse from here?


	9. Sin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up, we're going for a ride. I am sorry -again- in advance for the emotional rollercoaster I'm taking you on.

8.  
  
_____  
  


_Meet me on the battlefield_

Guinevere had believed there was nothing left in the world for her to fear. There was simply nothing left to lose, no pain left to feel. She found out she had been _very_ wrong.

She jolted awake, immediately held back by painful restraints. Pain was not the right word for what she felt. It didn’t begin to cover the intensity of it. Her head hung uncomfortable to the side, but she could not bring herself to move it. She swallowed and her throat protested. She blinked and her vision moved in and out of focus. Her head felt like someone had put a belt around it so tight that her skull might succumb under the pressure of it. It took her a long time to realize where she was, as she passed in and out of consciousness, but when it finally dawned on her a soft whimper escaped from her lips, which tasted like blood.   
How could this have happened? How could she have been so stupid?  
She was still unable to move her head, instead her eyes moved to take in her surroundings. She was in a tent, it was day, it smelled like men and it was cold. Her head bobbed forward and she could see she was strapped to a chair. Guinevere fought to keep her eyes open, her eyelids so heavy she wanted to give in. When the mercy of sleep was about to arrive, she heard someone enter the tent, quietly. Why could she not move her head?  
“Looks like she’s still out.”  
“Well can’t you give her something? We’ve been instructed to interrogate her.”  
“What if she’s a witch?”  
“Oh please, she’s harmless.”  
“Haven’t you heard what they can do?”  
“Rumours.”  
“I’m not sure that they are, you know.”  
“Don’t you dare speak of such evil!”  
Guinevere moaned quietly, wanting the noises to stop because they hurt her head. This was a mistake.  
“Ah look who’s awake.”  
Something, a large hand maybe, pulled at her hair and her head snapped back. Guinevere’s eyes shot open as pain shot down through her spine and her head throbbed as her vision started to fade. She kept her eyes open, even when barely seeing a thing. She could not give up control now.  
“Ain’t she a beaut.”  
A warm hand patted her cheek, her head dipped to the side, the hand pulled it back up.  
“Start the fire.” A second voice. “We’ll be done with her by nightfall, I’m sure.”

***  
  
  
Midday. They would wait until midday. It was the only way Lancelot had gotten the boy to shut up and he wasn’t going to test his luck. The boy, however, was less than satisfied and Lancelot watched him as he strapped the woman’s much too large sword to his body.  
“What are you doing?”  
“I am not going to sit around waiting when I know a friend is in trouble.”   
The boy was no longer a child, he had turned into a small man in just one morning.   
“How do you know she didn’t just leave?” Lancelot rolled his eyes but decided to entertain the boy with the question just to keep him from moving about so restlessly.  
“Her sword’s still here. Her cloak’s still here. She promised to get me food and she promised to get me home.”  
“You don’t have a home.”  
The boy glared at the man and shook his head, very slowly.  
“You just want her gone because she’s Fey. Even though you are too!” the boy spat.   
It was the first time he had spoken the words aloud, confirming the suspicion that he had heard and understood Abbott Wicklow’s snide remarks the night Lancelot saved him.  
“You hate us!”   
“Percival..”  
“You don’t care! You’re a coward!”  
Lancelot did not know what to say to that. He did not know what to do either. Percival took the woman’s cloak and bundled it up under his arm, the sword dragging after him as she moved to what used to be the fire and started covering it with dirt.  
“People leave, Percival.” His voice was quiet. “People can’t be trusted.”  
“You want me to trust you.” The boy looked up, tears in his eyes as he quickly rubbed his sleeve along his nose, which was now red.  
“You shouldn’t.” Lancelot admitted.  
“I don’t.” the boy snarled.  
“But you trusted her?”  
The boy did not answer him and when he started to walk away, Lancelot got up and rushed after him, grabbing his arm to pull him back. He _would not_ let the boy go.  
“What are you doing?” he asked again, genuinely confused why anyone would be so set upon finding someone that did not want to be found.  
“I’m going to find Guin. You can stay here, I don’t care.” The boy said dramatically.  
The man shook his head in exasperation and sighed angrily as he leaned in to meet Percival’s angry face.  
“Don’t you understand that…” he hissed but stopped and Percival pulled his arm from his grip. Lancelot froze and swallowed as the hairs on the back of his neck rose and his heartbeat sped up.  
He could feel them before he could hear them, like he always had and it triggered a chain reaction in him that pulled the boy along and behind a tree, large hand pressed to a small face to silence the boy who had started to protest.  
“Quiet.” Lancelot whispered the warning and the boy tensed up in his arms.  
The man eyed his horse, just a few trees away. His mind raced, going through all possible scenario’s as he heard the first signs of the Red Paladins in the distance.  
“It’s them.” Percival’s muffled voice.  
“Quiet.” Lancelot hissed again, pressing his hand to the boy’s mouth more forcefully. Percival looked up at him and Lancelot ignored him, his eyes again drawn to his horse. If they would run now, would they make it?  
Percival pulled Lancelot’s hand from his face, the boy was stronger than he looked.  
“They took her.” He whispered and Lancelot knew in his heart this was true, his mind, however, told him not to care about this new information.  
“We _have_ to help her!”   
“If they have her, she’s dead.”  
Lancelot moved to stand, pulling the boy up with him, dragging him along to his horse. He picked him up and the boy was about to start fighting him, _again_.  
“Get on the horse.” Lancelot ordered.  
“But…”  
The man got onto his horse as he could hear his Red brothers close in, he could smell them, hear their footsteps, recognize voices and he suddenly longed for something he knew he could never have again. He was trained to feel this way, trained to want to obey, living for serving God through their ways. What if he could see Father Carden one last time? What if he could tell him how sorry he was? That he was and would always be damned? Would he still love him? Would Father Carden care? Would he help him find his way back to God _one last time_? Or would he save her instead?  
Lancelot frowned as the questions changed, from serving God and going back to the only thing he had ever known to something he longed to know. Something that he had been born with but had only been freshly awakened in him. _Something sinful_.  
“What are you doing?”   
It was Percival’s turn to ask now and Lancelot was pulled from his train of thought by reality. He shook his head to rid himself of these thoughts as the Red Paladins would close in on them soon. He could _feel_ it and his entire being screaming to run, to bring the boy to safety.   
“We _need_ to try and save her!” The boy cried.   
But Lancelot’s mind was elsewhere, and it was hard to break from old habits, even harder to turn your back on all you’ve even known. He needed to see it, be there, talk to the only person who had saved him from certain damnation. _One. Last. Time_. And then _maybe_ he would help her while he was there.  
Lancelot turned his horse around, kicked it gently and started to ride. If they were looking for them here it meant they were close, he could find them, he could find anyone.

***  
  


“I am asking you this _one_ more time…”   
A man dressed in crimson circled around her and Guinevere knew what would happen if she did not give him the answer he was looking for. It had happened over, and over, and over until she would lose consciousness only to be awakened by smelling salts so they could torture denial out of her all over again.  
“…where are the rest of your people?”  
Guinevere wanted to sleep.  
Her hands were strapped to the chair so tightly she could not move them, her palms were directed upward and although Guin knew what would happen to them if she refused to answer the man, she pressed her lips together nonetheless. She had nothing to give and even if she did, she would never betray her people again. And now, she would never betray the Fey boy.  
“Have it your way.” The man said.  
She did not look as he moved to the fire next to her and with help of iron pliers pulled a red glowing ember from its home. He moved back, in a rush, and placed the burning coal in Guinevere’s hand. She gritted her teeth and tried to suppress her screams, struggling against her restraints even though her wrists had already been fought bloody. The man took her fingers and curled them around the ember, pressing down hard. She could no longer hold back her scream, however hard she had tried not to please the man with it, it burst out of her and ripped her in half.  
“There’s no one left!” Yell.  
“There’s no one!” Scream.  
“I’m alone!” Cry.  
“You killed them all.” Whisper.  
“ _I’m alone_.” Crack.  
The same answers when they burned her other hand. The same when they did it to the sole of her right foot, and then her left. They said it would be harder for her to run this way. They said they would help her get used to the fire until the fire was all she was longing for. She no longer wanted to sleep. Guinevere wanted to die.

But life was cruel and did not grant her such respite.   
_Maybe God spared your life for a reason_. Guinevere remembered the words the weeping man had said. With that weeping voice. God had spared her life to punish her for what she had done, she was sure of it now. Maybe their God really did hate her people. Maybe their God really did hate _her_. The thoughts filled her mind in the one quiet moment that was given to her, she wished she could sleep instead.   
Ironically the Red Paladins did not deem her worthy enough to miss their supper for, leaving her strapped to the chair like an animal. Even breathing hurt, pulling at the tight blistered skin of her chest. She looked down to see angry blackened skin just under her collarbone, where a branding iron had marked her for life, however short that life might be.The scent of her own burnt skin had caused her to throw up at least twice. The scent of food almost caused her the throw up again. She was _so_ thirsty.  
Guinevere closed her eyes and thought of water. Cool water running down her throat, cooling the burns on her hands and feet, enveloping her in peace and quiet and calm. It was a type of prayer, and it was answered by the soft pitter patter of raindrops on the tent above her. Guinevere smiled sadly at the sound of it, the voice of an old friend. Water couldn’t save her now. It even fled from her body in the form of tears, as if giving up on her, running down her temples, desperate to escape her fate.

  
***  
  
  
“I hate you.”  
Lancelot was sure that the boy meant it in this moment of time and in many others before.  
“You need me.” The man replied coldly.  
“You’re a traitor.” The boy crossed his arms in front of his chest in the saddle before Lancelot. The words were true in many ways. Traitor to his kind, traitor to his people. Were they even his people if he wasn’t their kind? And what was he trying to prove by going back there? Lancelot ran a hand over his face, begging his mind to stop racing. So, he did what he always did when his mind tortured him, he focused on the task at hand.  
“Give me the cloak.”  
He needed to find them, and to find them, he needed to find _her_.  
“Why?”  
“Give me the cloak.” Lancelot repeated, slower this time.  
Percival moved to take the bulk of fabric out from under his own leather one, handing it over like he had to share a toy. Lancelot noticed how Guinevere’s sword was placed careful across Goliath’s saddle in front of the boy. He had to admit he was starting to give into the realization that the woman would not have left without it. Like she would not have left without the boy. He knew this with his mind but why did he _feel_ so much resistance? He was so set on her betraying them even when none of it made sense.  
Lancelot took the cloak from Percival’s hands, glanced around to make sure concentrating was permissible and put the heavy fabric up to his nose. Her scent was not unpleasant. In fact, it took him back to that feeling of safety, wanting to share his secrets. Earthy, with hints of heady florals, like summer dying into autumn. It had not struck him before, not even in their fights, but it was hard to get out of his system now.  
“What are you doing?” Percival’s little voice was careful.   
“I know where to go.” Lancelot answered, handing back the cloak.  
“We’re going to help her?”  
“Be quiet and do exactly as I say.”  
The boy nodded quickly and even from only the side of his face Lancelot could see the corner of his mouth pull up in a smile. The strangest reward that made him pause for a moment in confusion, trying to figure out what the warmth was he felt spread inside of him.   
“Hold on.” He breathed.  
Then, swiftly and with precision, he guided Goliath in the direction of that heady scent, following it like a perfect trail through the woods.

***

_“Abbott Wicklow says to take her to the stake.”  
_ _“But we’re not done yet.”  
_ _“You know we’re not supposed to keep them alive for too long.”  
_ _“As if she could_ actually _hurt us.”  
_ _“They’re witches and demons!”  
_ _“They’re vermin. The least we can do is find out where the rest of them are hiding.”  
_ _“She says she’s alone.”  
_ _“Oh, and you believe a demon?”  
  
_

Guinevere heard faint voices in the distance. She could barely make out their words, her head throbbing and heavy on her shoulders. She struggled to move it up and open her eyes. She blinked as the world spun, trying to focus on any one thing in particular. When she looked down at her hands she was once again startled to see her restraints, temporary memory loss causing her to reassess the situation time and time again. And then everything came back to her. The questions, the pain, the poking and burning and hitting and cutting. There was no part of her body that _did not_ hurt and so part of her found relief in the idea that this would be the end.  
She could hear them discuss it and she would have welcomed it by now, they had been right, she would welcome the fire. Until she could hear the disgust in their voices, and the fear for what she was in their words and a tiny spark of the fire that she used to carry inside of her was ignited by pride. These were her people they were talking about and they were picking them apart, killing them one by one, village by village. Guinevere _could not_ give in, not while she could dedicate her life to saving her kind. If she was to die this night, she might as well take some of them with her, make her life _mean_ something. So, she waited, patiently. Her head low and eyes closed because it was too hard to do anything else at this point. Every true warrior knew it was important to wait for the exact right time, to know the importance of patience even when it was the hardest thing to do. She swallowed and drowned out the desire to die and escape this pain by thinking of home. Memories of when her mother was still alive and the world had seemed a beautiful place, of all four of her brothers alive, each of them looking so much like their father, a father that had been a wonderful man and a great leader. Guinevere thought of that great leader, before he was taken from them. The pain did not fade or lessen, the pain got worse, so bad it drove her insane and she used this. All of her being burning, a forest fire waiting to catch.  
“Come on, lass. Up you go.”  
The voice of hate said as hands fumbled at her restraints. Guinevere was trying to wake up, to clear her vision, to breathe.  
“Careful. Make sure she’s can’t…” the voice of fear started.  
“She’s nearly dead, Guffin.”  
“But..”  
Guinevere was sure she would lose herself to the darkness when the two men pulled her from her seat. The entire world was spinning, she felt like she was already burning at the stake. It was so tempting still to welcome it as they dragged her out of the tent. Twilight was turning the clouds above red, or maybe it was the fire that was waiting for her. Fresh air filled her lungs and she could tell it was cold. Very cold. The men were not careful, pulling her along like an animal ready for slaughter. Guinevere’s feet dragged along the mud which was painful but strangely cooling at the same time. She lifted her head to see where they were going, a blur of tents and fires and red fabric passing by and her head fell back to see the burning sky. The taste of blood was bitter in the back of her throat which still burned with thirst. She closed her eyes and prayed for rain, and to her surprise her gods obeyed. Thick, forgiving drops came down, slowly at first and Guinevere smiled through the pain. The tears that had escaped from her, returned to her from the sky, caressing her skin like the kindest of friends. She had been so close to giving up, to giving in to the fire that was waiting to welcome her with open arms.   
_Maybe God spared your life for a reason.  
_ Guinevere laughed ever so quietly, a dark and eerie sound, and the man with the voice of fear stiffened and tightened his grip on her upper arm, his thumb pressing into a cut there. It made Guinevere angry.  
The rain washed her vision clean now and as she moved her head with what little newfound strength the water had given her, she could tell that the men were armed. Tall and strong but _armed_.  
Which meant she was close to a weapon. Her hands tingled in anticipation, no matter their burns. Guinevere took in a deep breath, the rain surrounded them now, coming down hard and unforgiving upon her enemy, soaking her clothes, cooling her wounds. _Encouraging_ her. Maybe death would find her after all tonight, but she wouldn’t go down without a fight.

***  
  
  
Lancelot was taught there was strength in numbers and although he mostly still agreed with this, he also knew that numbers could be a weakness which is why he usually liked to work alone.  
“You’re going in _there_?” Percival whispered from in front of him.  
They had followed the woman’s scent all the way to a camp, smaller than Lancelot remembered them, but unmistakably Red Paladins. Maybe they had divided their troops? Changed their strategies?  
“I thought you wanted me to save her.” Lancelot couldn’t bring himself to speak her name, as if it would grant her power over him.  
They stood at the edge of the forest, hidden by foliage and trees, rain coming down hard and the boy shivered. Lancelot could not tell if it was out of fear or cold.  
“I can help.”  
Lancelot descended from his horse slowly, boot coming down into muddy ground. He started to gather his weapons, strapping a dagger to his leg in case he needed it.  
“No.”  
“I can, I can help you!”  
Lancelot shot the boy a warning glance which silenced him immediately.  
“If I’m not back before the moon is up above those clouds, you run.” Lancelot pointed at the sky, the clouds glowing red and orange while the moon tried desperately to rise above them.  
“But…”  
Another warning glance.  
“You take Goliath and go.”  
The boy swallowed as he looked down to meet Lancelot’s stern gaze, his face was pale and rain ran down his cheeks like tears. He nodded once, bravely, and Lancelot handed him the reins.  
Lancelot looked back at the camp and couldn’t help but think it looked strangely inviting, with kind fires and the guarantee of shelter. But he had also come to realize there was no kindness there, only a purpose he could no longer connect to, no matter how badly he needed to. It was what drew him in.  
“I don’t hate you, you know.”  
The man turned to look up at the boy, confused, trying to work out the emotion there. The boy looked sad, maybe even afraid. He did not know how to respond, instead he pointed back up at the sky again.  
“The moon…yes, I know.” The boy rolled his eyes.  
“Don’t do anything stupid, Squirrel.”  
Lancelot was surprised when the boy’s preferred name came from his lips, but even more surprised when the boy’s hand moved over his to grab his wrist. Not in a threatening or angry way but in a way that felt foreign to Lancelot. He looked at the little hand there, resting over his which was placed on the back of his horse.  
“Come back, _please_.” The boy pleaded.  
“I will.” Lancelot looked up at the boy one last time, nodding curtly. This was a promise he intended to keep.

He walked into camp like he did not fear death. And maybe he didn’t.

A strange sense of anticipation caught him off guard, sending a shiver up his spine as he followed her sent to the right side of camp. The rain and the twilight were a welcome cover from attracting too much attention, causing most of the camp’s inhabitants to remain inside. Still Lancelot slipped from shadow to shadow, moving along tents and barrels as to not catch someone’s eye. Sounds of hard work and prayer surrounded him and his heart ached for what he had lost, wondering if it ever really had been his. The sounds of his past were disrupted though, by the sound of iron clashing on iron and the hint of a battle cry he recognized. This caused an unfamiliar reaction in him, his mind and heart fighting over exactly what they wanted him to do. He had never truly decided to help her, to save her. He had wanted to see Father Carden one last time, just for a moment. But only now did he realize an oddly large part of him wanted to do as the boy had asked him to. Her scent and this battle cry only seemed to strengthen that. While this war raged inside of him, his body had made the decision for him, always ready, always alert, and started moving. His hands flexed just before curling around the hilts of his weapons at his hip as he closed in on the sounds, following that heady scent that was disguised only slightly by that of rain and seared skin.   
At first, he could only see red, red fabric swirling, moving, falling. And in the middle of it all, the Fey woman. She was up against four men and when she struck one of his brothers down a fifth joined them, calling out for help. Lancelot did not notice how his breath had quickened, nor how his heart raced, he was too busy fighting the overwhelming urge to join the fight. _What was he doing?  
_ He stood and watched, frozen in the shadow of a small tent, overwhelmed by his own doubt. He hated himself for what he _wanted_ to do, he hated himself for what he _wasn’t_ doing. He balled his fists and ground his teeth, simultaneously fighting an almost primal _need_ to help this woman while at the same time battling the extreme sense of guilt for what he wanted to do to his brothers. _Something sinful.  
_ The woman however, was not frozen and did not wait, she didn’t’ even realize he was there as she fought for survival. Her small frame looked broken, every move strained and when she fell Lancelot caught himself fearing for her. She scrambled back up, a rough roar escaping from her and the water in the puddle she had fallen into started vibrating. She defied the men around her to come at her, striking them down one by one, wild like an animal, covered in blood and mud and burns and Lancelot was mesmerized, causing him to step forward and thrust himself into the fight without any further thought. There was no fear, no doubt as he moved swiftly to take on the new set of Red Paladins rushing to their brother’s aid. He could hear how behind him Guinevere was still alive, still fighting as he pulled one of his brothers to his chest and slit his throat before he could call for more help. When he turned to face her, she was facing the last man standing. The man was out of Lancelot’s reach and he could _feel_ something was wrong. Guinevere barely stood upright, blood spilling from her mouth and running down her chin as she coughed. She held up a sword that wasn’t hers, too big and heavy for her to hold. Her entire being was trembling as she faced the man with such fierce bravery Lancelot couldn’t look away. Another battle cry as she charged at the man but before she could reach him he fell, knees buckling, face down in the mud with an ugly thump. Lancelot looked at his own hand, arm stretched out and at the dagger in the man’s back. It had happened so naturally, so easy. He looked at the bodies surrounding them and felt no remorse. 

  
  
***  
  
Guinevere was surprised when the man fell before she could reach him. The sound of him hitting the ground was ugly but satisfying and she was surprised to find a familiar dagger planted in his back. Her chest heaved painfully, her heart beating so fast she was sure it was coming out through her throat. It was _so hard_ to stand. She fought the sensation of her entire body trembling, which only worsened it. She looked up and saw him, _really noticed_ him for the first time. Where she had felt him fighting _with her_ before, she could now see him clearly even when her vision blurred everything else. He was standing very still, as if time itself had frozen just for them to catch their breaths.   
_The Weeping Monk.  
_ Guinevere was unsure how it happened, or _what_ had happened, but her body suddenly surrendered, knees shaking, threatening to give in from under her. The sword she held, which was stuck to the oozing blisters of her palm, fell down, ripping some of that tender skin and she whimpered as she looked at the one that had come back for her.  
There was a strange emotion in those weeping eyes and Guinevere could not decipher it, all she knew was that she was losing it to the darkness and she was glad she wasn’t alone. Both of them stood like that, staring at each other as if their eyes were glued together. She stepped forward, one shaky step, two shaky steps and her knees gave in. They hit the ground hard and she cried quietly, a sound as broken as her body which was now swaying to the side weakly. She was surprised when the man leaped forward, suddenly back in motion, catching her before she collapsed.  
“We have to move.”  
Guinevere clung to his robes as if she tried to figure out if she was still alive or in the hell they tried to send her to. It certainly felt like she was burning. Her hands touched rough fabric that covered strong shoulders and it hurt so much she hoped that meant she was still alive. She tried to find a face in that hood, _anything_ that didn’t feel evil or wrong in this forsaken place.  
“Come on.”   
She found it in his husky voice and when he broke away from her, she clung to him like she tried to hold on to life. He was quick to return, wrapping something around her, pulling a hood over her head. A red cloak.  
“Get up.” He said sternly while helping her do so.  
Walking was hard if not impossible, especially at his pace, she tripped when he tried to push her into the shadows and out of the way just to demand her to get up again. Guinevere wanted to sleep, she wanted to give in to that darkness. The fighting was done. _She_ was done. Her head bobbed down, eyelids so heavy it felt like punishment not to close them.  
“We’re almost there.” The man whispered, his arm slipping around her waist, supporting her.   
“Get up.” There was a desperate annoyance in his voice, which sounded far away, and Guinevere tripped again but found her footing now, gasping as pain shot through her tender soles.   
They ran and the man glanced back to see if they were being followed, Guinevere tried this once but it made the world spin so fast she decided to never do it again. She just kept running, for the dark woods beyond. _Everything_ hurt when he suddenly pulled at her arm to change direction.  
“This way.” Guinevere followed that voice even when the world started to turn dark.   
“Here.” The voice guided her and Guinevere thought she would be content if it was the last thing she ever heard. 

  
***  
  
She looked like death in a moving body, barely holding on. He knew the feeling. But just like she wouldn’t let him give in, he wouldn’t let her either. When she looked at him, he could tell she did not see him, eyes off, staring at something just beyond him. She tripped more than once, getting up slower each time until he dragged her to the edge of the forest which looked dark and welcoming.  
Lancelot was out of breath, panic taking over as he did not find Percival where he thought he would find him. He looked around frantically, letting go of Guinevere, scouring the edge of the forest for any trace of the boy. The man looked up into the sky to find the moon not yet above the clouds. The boy should be here. He swallowed and looked back to see Guinevere leaning against a tree, catching her breath, her face pale. The rain had stopped and she pulled back the hood of the crimson cloak.  
“Where is he?” she demanded, her voice barely a ghost of what it used to be.   
Lancelot did not dare to think of the things they had done to her to make her look and sound like that. Instead he turned back around, moving around looking for the boy as if he and an entire horse could be hiding behind a simple tree.  
“Where is he?” her voice grew louder now and Lancelot turned around quickly and his hood fell back, he rushed forward to put a firm hand over bloody lips to silence her. He wanted to tell her to shut up, he wanted to get angry for what she had made him do back there, but he couldn’t, not with those eyes looking at him like that. He had avoided those eyes while they fled the camp because they had stirred the worst in him, making him fight his brothers and defy his God. He looked down at her now, unable to break the stare as unwelcomed relief washed over him. He was _glad_ she was alive.   
“Guin!”  
Lancelot dropped his hand and turned to see the boy run up to them. He jumped into the woman’s arms and they collapsed to the ground. Guinevere coughed, a painful sound, and Lancelot pulled the boy back. The night was full of treacherous surprises though and the boy turned to face him, short arms wrapping around his waist in an unfamiliar gesture. Lancelot stood frozen for a moment and frowned, looking down at the top of the boy’s head. Although Lancelot was relieved to see the boy was alive, panic and discomfort crashed over him at the realization of what he had just done. _He was going to hell._ All of them were. He was just delaying the inevitable.  
“We need to go.” Percival said, pulling at Lancelot’s arm.  
But Lancelot was staring back at the Red Paladin camp, still fighting that sick longing that ached in his chest. He looked back at Guinevere, who was trying to stand with help of the tree next to her. She looked at him as if she had felt his eyes on her. She frowned a little, blinking slow, still fighting to stay awake and then suddenly and without explanation she shook her head. Only slightly but it was there, and Lancelot felt as if she had just read his mind. Or did she feel betrayed?   
“I’ll be back.”  
“No..” she pushed herself from the tree and wobbled toward him, Lancelot quickly stepped back. He could not handle being touched by her again. He would not be swayed into leaving now that he was this close.  
“Stay here.”   
“What…” Percival protested, holding Guinevere up.   
But nothing could stop Lancelot from returning to the only thing he had ever known, _one last time_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say...?


	10. Stay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More than excited to have you read this. Also a little nervous. Or a lot.

9.  
  
_____  
  


_it still hurts underneath my scars_

  
Lancelot felt like he was harbouring a storm, conflicting thoughts raging through him as he walked back into what was now surely enemy territory. He did not run, he did not have his hands ready at his sword for battle, he just walked. Tired and slow and _scared_.  
With each step he grew more uncertain of what he was doing, more in doubt over what he had done. This confused him, just moments before he had felt more certain about his purpose than he had in a long time, he had even killed his brothers over it. What was it about the Fey that made him act like this? He looked down instinctively as his face flushed in shame. He wondered what he would do if he was attacked now, by his own brothers. Would he let them kill him? Lancelot glanced back at the edge of the forest, way back in the dark. He had promised the boy he’d return, would he be able to keep it?  
Sad blue eyes scanned the camp, searching for that one banner that indicated where his father would be. There was no wind this night and so he found it hanging limply at the top of that familiar tent, closer than he had expected it to be. Closer than he was ready for. Lancelot swallowed but it did not remedy the lump in his throat.  
“There he is!”   
He turned quickly, instinct driving his hand to the hilt at his hip again, but he did nothing more as a group of men dressed in red closed in on him. He had not expected a friendly greeting, not after what he had done. He just wanted to see him, just once more.  
The men were suspicious when Lancelot awaited them quietly, moving in closer very carefully, whispering amongst themselves to be careful, to take his weapons, to bind his wrists. Lancelot let them, fear turning into surrender. All for a greater cause. He had been raised that way by these very men. He had suffered for the greater cause all of his life, never actually coming closer to God.  
The men kicked him, pushed him down to his knees to bind his wrists and pull his weapons from him to keep for themselves until finally one of them walked up to Lancelot and looked him in the eye.  
“What are you doing here, weeping man?”  
Lancelot noticed how the man avoided the word brother and it stung more than he thought it would.  
“I’m here to see _him_.”   
Why could he not say his name? He had been thinking it for days but why could he not say it?  
The man only frowned, an unfriendly sight, and turned to gesture to his brothers to take Lancelot and follow him. He was pulled up to his feet and walked with them voluntarily. Lancelot was surrounded by whispers, whispers of disgust and hate, of fear and loathing. They thought he didn’t hear them, but each comment cut through him like a knife. _They knew._ They all knew what he was. And they hated him. Had Father Carden told them?  
They guided him to the tent he had come for but once they pulled him through the guarded entrance he did not find what he had expected there and his heart dropped. The man in Father Carden’s seat was not dressed in red, nor did he have his grey beard or steel eyes. No, this was a very different person and one Lancelot had hoped to never see again.  
“The Weeping Monk.” Abbott Wicklow drew out the words with his eerie singsong voice as he rose from his seat. _Father Carden’_ s seat. He was dressed in black but not surrounded by his usual gang of Trinity guards. No, the only ones in this tent were the Red Paladin monks pushing Lancelot down to his knees in front of the man. When Lancelot refused, they kicked the back of his leg and the man fell down, quickly raising his head to look at the Abbott.  
“The last time we met you killed half of my guards.”  
“They deserved it.” Lancelot spat and was immediately punished for it by the man behind him as a hard object clashed onto his back where his wounds were still tender. Lancelot tried hard not to flinch.  
“Ah..” Wicklow smiled a sinister smile and held up his hands to the heavens. “Alas it is not you who decides the fate of men.”   
“You were going to murder a child.”  
Another hit. Just under his ribs this time, Lancelot felt like throwing up.  
“We were going to cleanse its soul, or have you forgotten what we do here?”  
Wicklow did not come closer, he just stood by the large wooden chair, glaring down at Lancelot as if he was something dirty. Lancelot looked down at his own hands, how they were bound together sloppily. He could get out of these restraints, _if_ he wanted to.  
“Have you forgotten all that Father Carden has taught you…” the man started slow as he paced back and forth. “…about the work we do to save _your kind_ from eternal damnation.”  
Lancelot looked up at the man now, towering over him, and his mind wandered to a dark place. A place where he imagined how he would kill this man and enjoy it.  
“It is… _unfortunate_ , isn’t it?” the man’s slow lazy voice started and Lancelot could feel a chill creep up his spine as his heart started to race.  
“What happened to him..” Wicklow continued.  
Lancelot looked up again quickly, trying to read the man’s face but the task was impossible. There was nothing there but disgust. Lancelot struggled slightly as the brothers held him in place when his breathing quickened.  
“What do you mean?” he growled low.  
The Abbott turned to face him again, dramatically, and smiled his sinister smile. Lancelot could _feel_ what he was going to say but it didn’t lessen the blow.  
“Murder.” The man said almost gleefully although Lancelot knew no one else would see it that way.  
“Father Carden is dead.”  
Lancelot’s lips parted as a quiet gasp escaped from him, he looked down, wanting to hide in the safety of his hood only to find that it had been removed from his head. There was nowhere to hide, nowhere to go. Lancelot felt an overwhelming ache in his chest, he wanted to scream, he wanted to hurt himself, he wanted to do anything to escape this news. Father Carden. Dead. He had turned his back on his father, betrayed his savior…and now his only guidance was dead. Gone forever. Overwhelmed by guilt Lancelot caved, bowing down to the cold ground, the weight of it all was too much. He had nothing left. No home, no purpose, no soul. This was his punishment, God had crushed him, forced him on his knees. The words repeated in his mind over and over. 

_Father Carden is dead_.

***  
  
“We _have_ to do something!” Squirrel looked at the man’s figure, which was now getting smaller and smaller as he made his way back to the Red Paladin camp in the clearing.  
Guinevere closed her eyes, her lungs burning with every breath she took. How had she known -felt _so_ clearly- what he was about to do? What a stupid, _stupid_ man. When she opened her eyes, she realized she was upset, not because she was hurting, but because she wanted him here. She couldn’t do this alone. She didn’t _want_ to. She looked at the clearing and her heart skipped a beat when he was gone.  
“Where did he go?” she breathed, panic clouding her judgement.  
“I don’t know!”  
“We _have_ to do something.” He repeated.  
Guinevere looked up when the man’s horse walked up to them, it had followed Squirrel through the woods and was now pushing its nose into the boy’s side. As she looked at the dark horse she remembered how tender the man had touched it just nights before. How the animal had reacted so soothingly to his every touch. There was good in him, she had seen this tonight. She looked back at Squirrel, pushing herself from the tree to walk toward him. Her eyes caught sight of something shimmering in the moonlight, her sword. She bent down and half fell, half moved, onto her knees in front of him.  
“You look very bad…” Squirrel said, clearly scared.  
Guinevere _felt_ bad. But a body had a funny way of staying alive when it needed to.  
“Give me that.” Guinevere fumbled at the buckles that held her sword to the boy’s hip, his little hands helped her quietly and when she looked up, she could see that he was crying.  
“Hey…” Guinevere instinctively put her hand to his cheek, which hurt her fingertips and left blood on his soft skin where she wiped away his tears.  
“Hey. It’s okay.”  
She swallowed and looked back again at the camp. She could feel adrenaline coursing through her veins, resuscitating parts of her body with stubborn determination. She was breathing fast, working up the strength -or courage- for what she already knew she was about to do.  
“It’s going to be okay.” She said again, absentmindedly, pushing herself up with help of her weapon. She was a shaking mess, bruised bones held together by bleeding skin. Guinevere made her way to the horse, stumbling all the way and rummaged through the saddle bags in search of water. When she found it, trembling hands worked to get it to her lips. She drank the entire bottle as if it was air and she had not been able to breathe. She closed her eyes as she leaned against the horse for a moment, catching her breath as the water once again _encouraged_ her, soothing her pain just long enough for her to make a _very_ stupid decision.  
“What are you doing?” Squirrel asked, alarmed as she turned and started walking, dragging one leg, using her sword as a crutch. Guinevere turned just before she was out of the forest’s protective embrace.  
“Get on the horse. When you see _anyone_ coming this way. You turn around and you run. You go north.”  
Squirrel shook his head quickly, panic in his big eyes.   
“ _You go north_ , Squirrel.” Guinevere groaned. Speaking hurt. Why couldn’t the child just listen?  
“No, no, no, no what are you doing?”   
“Born in the dawn…” Guinevere started, reaching out once more to caress the boy’s cheek as she smiled sadly. When the boy didn’t say anything, she felt tears well up in her own eyes.  
“To pass in the twilight.” He sobbed, quickly rubbing his nose as he sniffed.  
Guinevere nodded solemnly and turned, dragging herself out of the false safety of those woods.   
“I’ll get your pet for you.”

She didn’t know what she was doing, she barely knew where she was going. Whenever her mind was in doubt, her body silenced it with pain. She was already past the point of no return by the time adrenaline faded and she got tired again, tents surrounding her as she slipped behind a large pile of supplies, catching her breath there. She looked back over her shoulder, wondering if she could go back and while her entire body screamed at her to do so she could feel it wasn’t _right_. Searching for him seemed hopeless. An endless sea of identical tents spread out across the field. Every now and then she could see the brother’s in red and she would hide in the fabric of her own red cloak, fighting to stay standing upright, hiding in dark corners.  
There was nothing subtle about the way she stumbled into their camp, nothing left of her swift and silent ways. When her knees gave in she sat down, hidden between wooden crates and a tent, sword in hand, just staring down at it. Guinevere closed her eyes. This was a mistake. She stayed like that for a moment, until she dozed off and her head fell back, startling her awake. She caught herself just before she fell back, hands clashing with the wet ground and there was that familiar friend again. Guin looked down at her hand in the mud, fingertips touching water left from the rain and she smiled sadly. What was the water trying to tell her?  
 _“Father Carden is dead.”  
_ She heard the eeriest voice behind her and that same sensation that told her that something was very wrong. Guin turned her head to listen, which was hard but not impossible.  
 _“I’ve taken over his duties by request of the Pope himself. And after the_ little stunt _you pulled I can tell you he was less than pleased..”  
_ _“What happened?”  
_ She recognized this voice. The low and raspy sound. She knew this voice. It was _him_.   
_“What happened to him?”  
_ She heard him ask again and his voice broke on the last word. What was he doing? Was he working with them? Was he going to betray Squirrel? Would he really save her just to give them up again? Guinevere was dizzy with questions, trying hard to keep her breathing under control as she crawled to get closer to the tent, hidden in the shadows of the crates. There was a sharp sound of skin on skin, like a slap and the eerie voice continued without answering the weeping man.   
_“..now the Pope has left me with special instructions as to how to deal with your insubordination if we were to catch you. And here you are…”  
_ Guinevere stifled a cough, biting her lip to silence herself.   
_“…Why did you return? Did you really think Father Carden would forgive you? After all you have done..where is the Fey boy anyway?”  
_ _“He’s gone.”  
_ _“Ah…did you bring him back to_ your _people?”  
_ Guinevere’s heart stopped and she squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again, trying to figure out if she had heard the man right or if he had made a mistake.   
_“Did you find them? Did they reject you like the brothers did?”  
_ So, the words were no mistake. Guinevere swallowed, her heart beating uncomfortably fast in her chest as everything started to fall into place.   
_“Tell me,”_ the eerie voice grew darker, _“how long do you think will it take for you to give up their location?”  
_ _“There’s no one.”  
_ Guinevere knew where this was going. She knew because she had gone through it. This is what they did to all Fey. _Fey_. Could it be? Could the Weeping Monk be one of _them_? She was breathing fast now, her hand searching for her sword in the mud. She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t think.   
_“What did he see in you…”_ the evil voice mused, “ _…I should just have you killed right here and now.”  
_ Guinevere pushed herself up, leaning on her sword, reeling with this new knowledge. There was no time to breathe, no time to think. Every true warrior knew it was important to wait for the exact right time, and that time was now. She teared the fabric of the tent with her weapon and stumbled into the unknown with such conviction there was no space for fear.  
“You touch him. You die.” 

  
  
***  
  
Lancelot had been ready to die at the hand of Abbott Wicklow or either one of his brothers. Head bent down, neck exposed, looking down at his own hands, the weight of the world on his shoulders pressing down until he was about to crack. He heard a ripping noise and braced himself for what was to come, wondering if the strike would come from above or the side when _that scent_ hit him. Lancelot closed his eyes, sure that his mind was playing tricks on him in his last moments before he was _finally_ sent to hell.   
_“You touch him. You die.”  
_ That voice.  
Lancelot’s head shot up and everything stopped. His heart stopped beating, he stopped breathing, his head was silent. It was her. Death in a moving body, a ghost of a woman but it was _her_.   
Guinevere was barely standing but still simply her being there seemed to intimidate Abbott. The man’s eyes large with fear, his face so pale he already looked dead. Guinevere’s entire body shook with effort, sword in her hand shaking violently, its tip moving frantically under the man’s chin as she fought to hold it and herself up and it was the most beautiful mess Lancelot had ever seen. _Never_ had anyone in this camp done what this wonderous creature, and the Fey boy had done for him.  
“ _Are you crazy_?” Lancelot hissed.  
She didn’t reply, her eyes, which had been angry and fixed upon Abbott, shifted to meet his. How was she still standing? Lancelot fought the urge to undo his restraints, tips of swords pressed into his sides as the guards behind him assessed the situation. Guinevere pressed her sword to Wicklow’s skin, drawing blood, showing her enemy she was serious. Lancelot’s eyes were glued to hers though. There was so much blood on her face. He swallowed, her chest was heaving as her lips parted and for a moment Lancelot was afraid she’d collapse right there.  
“Born in the dawn…” she whispered and her voice shook as much as her body with the mere effort of staying upright, she was pleading with her eyes. It was a question. Lancelot held her gaze even as his heart tried to fight its way out of his chest.  
So, she had heard Abbott, she had heard everything and she came back for him. She had not lied when she told him she’d do anything for her people and she was asking him if he was one of them. _Her_ people. _Their_ people.  
“…to pass in the twilight.”  
It was the first time Lancelot had ever used the sentence to reveal his true lineage in decades and although he knew it should feel wrong _it didn’t_. He nodded slowly, reassuringly he realized. His words caused a strange reaction to pass over Guinevere’s face, a string of emotions unfolding so quickly it was hard to tell which was winning. Recognition, anger, pity, sadness, judgement, compassion, fear.  
“So, the _Fey orphan_ found himself a _Fey witch_.”   
Abbott Wicklow laughed wickedly. He was either very brave or very stupid for making this remark, maybe a little bit of both. Guinevere’s grip on her sword tightened at his words and Lancelot looked at her and understood, without words, that it was his time to strike.  
He could get out of these restraints, _if_ he wanted to. And he _needed_ to.   
Lancelot was swift and unforgiving, elbowing the guard on his right in the knee, up on his feet to slice his restraints on the man’s sword as it came down on him. Fear was visible on the man’s face as he realized Lancelot was no longer bound, and he kicked him back and down just long enough to deal with the guard to his left. He glanced over at Guinevere quickly, who now ducked as Wicklow swung a large brass candle holder at her. He trusted she could manage the attempt as he shifted his attention back to the men around him as two more spilled from the entrance into the tent.  
Guinevere rushed to the middle of the tent to meet him, standing back to back as they took a moment to take in their opponents. Lancelot moved his hand down and back and passed her the knife he had just retrieved from one of the monks, she took it and he could feel how she leaped away from him, charging at the guard who was now protecting Wicklow. There were no words needed to decide who would take on who, it all just _happened_.  
Fighting his former brothers proved easier than fighting the Trinity Guard, and Wicklow seemed to notice this too. Weaseling his way to the entrance of the tent, orchestrating his way out carefully as Lancelot was occupied fighting a guard.  
“Low!”  
Lancelot obeyed immediately, ducking at the sound of her voice. When he got back up and looked over his shoulder the knife he had handed to Guinevere was now stuck in the eye of a man that held out his axe just inches from Lancelot’s back, he looked back at her and nodded curtly. She turned and stumbled on and he wanted to move over and help her when someone pulled at his hood. An annoyed groan escaped from him as he twisted and turned, pulling the man down swiftly, planting him on his back. Lancelot got back up, panting as he held his foot on the man’s neck, glancing around to find the woman standing over Abbott Wicklow, sword pressed to his chest. He glanced back down at the man struggling there, bent down to take his head in between his hands, looking into those eyes waiting to _feel something_ before snapping the man’s neck.  
“You’ll burn in hell!” a scared Wicklow staggered, Lancelot looked back to see the man trying to get out from under her weapon. He waited, watching her as he tried to catch his breath.  
“I’ll see you there.” She pressed down with her entire weight and the blade sunk down with an ugly crack.

***  
  
  


“Born in the dawn…”  
“…To pass in the twilight.”   
All of it suddenly made sense as he uttered those words, his gaze never leaving hers. She had _felt_ it. Just like she felt the truth in those words right now. Guinevere was overwhelmed with emotions and questions that she could not tell apart because there were so many of them. She only calmed down when the man nodded slowly, _reassuringly_ , and it felt like she had found something she had been looking for for so long she had merely forgotten what it looked like. She knew what they were about to do, and it felt _right_. The thought of it alone gave her the energy to breathe again and everything else happened in a blur.  
Fighting with a broken body was hard but fighting _with him_ was effortless. They moved as one person in two bodies, a dance similar to when they fought each other but this, this was _different_. Guinevere was in awe at how connected she could feel without so much as a word or a look. When she fell, he lashed out, when he moved recklessly, she had his back and when the fight was over Guinevere felt light-headed but hopeful for the first time in a _very long time_. She had enjoyed killing the coward that tried to get away, even though it had caused her all the energy she had left. Getting to feel this had been worth it. When she looked up, he was watching her, weeping eyes ablaze with something she had not seen there before.   
“I don’t feel so good.” She breathed, her sword swaying now under her weight.  
“You’re crazy.” He said and Guinevere could swear that she saw the hint of a grin in the corner of his mouth, full lips pulling slightly to the side. Or was that just her headache?  
“You’re Fey.” She said, her heart skipping a beat again at the realization.  
“We have to go.”  
Guinevere nodded and sunk to her knees, clinging to her sword that remained stuck in the man’s still warm body. She was barely breathing, staring at that face to stay awake. The hood was gone, revealing high cheekbones and curly hair, eyes blue like water now that the light could reach them. That face that closed in on her now and got to his knees in front of her. She pushed him away, dizzy and confused as he pulled at her arm, which hurt a lot.  
“Let me rest.”  
He pulled the hood back over her head and she was frustrated because she just wanted to see him, she just needed to see those eyes. Or sleep. Sleep would be good too. He pulled at her again, a hand reaching down at her waist where ribs hurt whenever she breathed. She pushed him away.  
“Let me rest.” She mumbled and he moved back into her vision again, weeping eyes large. He shook his head and pulled her up, Guinevere clung to his shoulders, her arm hooking around his neck because she couldn’t stand. She couldn’t. She could hear his breath fast and uneven next to her ear.  
“Let me rest…” she pleaded.   
“Not tonight.” He said.

***  
  
Lancelot did not look back to see if anyone was following him when he ran for the woods with the Fey woman in his arms. The same primal _feeling_ that had caused almost every decision he had made this night directed his every action and his mind was quiet for the first time in maybe his entire life. He ran until his lungs hurt and his arms protested, and he prayed. Prayed for her heart to keep beating like it did, thumping against his upper arm. Prayed for them to make it to the forest and the boy. He could feel her grow weak as her hand dropped from where it had clung to his robes. Lancelot readjusted her, shifted her in his arms so he could hold her better and her body felt limp in his arms.  
“Stay with me.” He whispered out of breath.   
Her head lifted a little, as if she was about to answer him but fell down again and Lancelot cursed under his breath because he couldn’t believe that what had just happened was slipping through his fingers. Lancelot reached the edge of the woods to collapse to his knees.

  
“ _Guinevere_ , stay with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHAT.


	11. Help

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey, guess who's back! I want to welcome new readers and thank them for all the wonderful comments they've left behind. It's been a real treat!

10.  
  
_____  
  


_I will be your sword and shield, and you will be mine  
  
  
_

Lancelot was unsure if he should pray or curse when he realized that the woman did not move when they had crashed to the ground. He looked down at her, draped over his lap, his one arm under her head which hung limply to the side. Instinctively his other hand reached out to her neck but stopped before he reached its destination, hovering awkwardly as his mind caught up to him, wondering what he was supposed to do. He just looked at her, the color red was everywhere, the fabric around her still body, the blood on her skin, the burns there. When his mind had been absent his hand had reached its final destination, fingertips running along the smooth skin of Guinevere’s neck down to the burnt mark under her collarbone. Lancelot was overwhelmed by emotions he had not dealt with before and he could most definitely not deal with them now. Instead he froze, numb, staring down at the doll like figure in his arms. She had been so alive, so full of fire and fortitude and now…She was _so cold_.  
“Lancelot!”  
Lancelot could hear a familiar voice, but his body wouldn’t respond, _he just sat there_. He could feel how someone pulled at his arm, shook his shoulder, cried something at him but he only really noticed it when something moved into his line of vision, blocking his sight. The boy was hovering over the woman now, his little hands touching her, searching, crawling over her arms as if he could find a way to make her come back there. The little hand pulled at his, peeling it from her skin, pressing to the side of her neck and the boy leaned in. Lancelot was confused at first but then all that had happened came rushing back to him and he realized the boy was seeing _if she was still alive_. He suddenly felt nauseous at the idea of her being dead because of him, of her being dead at all.  
“She’s still breathing!” Percival’s words seemed like they were sent from heaven itself and Lancelot let out a breath, realizing he had not been breathing while the boy examined her. When his breathe returned it was ragged, not because he was tired but because he was scared.  
“Come on.” Percival pulled at his arm again, impatiently. “We have to go!”  
Lancelot frowned and got up, the dead weight of the unconscious woman suddenly a lot more difficult to carry. He groaned as Percival pulled at his robes, pulling them to the safety of the forest beyond. When they reached Goliath, Lancelot was torn between making a run for it and staying to make sure Guinevere was alive. His mind was unsure if he wanted to know the answer, but his body had taken over, putting the woman down carefully, propping her up against a tree. Lancelot was quick to remove his cape and place it over her unmoving body, looking down at her awkwardly as the boy crashed down to his knees next to her.   
“Wake up, Guin. Wake up.” Percival shook her shoulder and Lancelot pulled him back, a little harsher than he had intended to. The boy shrugged him off and hurled himself back at the woman, hugging her. Tears ran down his face now as he begged for her to wake up. Lancelot rushed to Goliath and searched the saddle bags for something, _anything_ that might help him in this situation. The truth was he had no idea what to do. He looked at his own hands, covered in blood, and they were trembling.  
 _Water_. He remembered, water, she needed water. He rushed back to Guinevere and got to his knees, pulling Percival from her again, a little more careful this time.  
“Do something, please!” the boy cried and Lancelot tried to block out the desperate sound of his voice as he put the bottle to her bloodied lips. Most of the water went right down her chin and Lancelot pulled back clumsily.   
“Don’t drown her, you idiot!” Percival snagged the bottle from his hands and with a gentleness that he had never been taught the boy put the bottle to Guinevere’s lips, his free hand guiding her chin upward, pouring ever so slowly. Lancelot looked around anxiously, his mind racing and his hands restless. When they were fighting, he had known exactly what to do, exactly what she needed. Now…he was lost. He looked down at her again and reached out, dabbing his cape carefully where he had spilled the water. While he wiped her skin dry the back of his hand brushed along her jaw and she felt like ice, his hand moved to cup the side of her face absentmindedly as if he could feel how she was feeling that way. Lancelot could feel the boy watching him, but all he could see was blue lips, colorless cheeks and eyes that were meant to be open and glaring at him. But they weren’t. He watched Percival take her hand in both of his.  
“Do something!” he pushed.  
“Start a fire.”  
“What?!” the boy spat.  
“A fire. She’s cold.”  
“We can’t start a fire, they’ll see us!”  
“Well then she’ll freeze to death!” Lancelot growled in desperation.  
“So, _do something_!” the boy hissed at him, taking off his own much smaller cape to drape around her in an effort to do something himself.   
Lancelot sat back suddenly, once again afraid for what he was about to do, and quickly and very clumsily pulled her into his arms with a desperate urgency. His body was screaming at him, telling him what to do while his mind told him to stop and run now that he still could. She wasn’t even shivering anymore, she was just so very still. Lancelot felt like he was holding carved out of stone. He knew this wasn’t enough. His arms slipped under the layers of capes and into the red robes and he pulled her closer, cradling her to his chest as the boy came to his aid, pulling her hood over her head protectively. Lancelot readjusted, shifted so he could press more of his body to hers. Now he was the one who was shivering, painfully aware of the body that was pressed against him, even if unconscious. He swallowed and busied himself by rubbing her upper arm, careful not to hurt any injuries there but the skin on skin contact only worsened a sense of panic in him. Lancelot lowered his head to hide his face from the boy, hair coming down from the leather strap in his hair and falling down to frame his face. Her scent hit him hard, his nose almost buried in those wild and dark waves of her hair. Lancelot was breathing fast, dizzy and overwhelmed and _scared_. He swayed back and forth, praying for any type of sign that she was alive beside her barely-there breath. And there it was, a soft groan coming from within the layers of red fabric surrounding her face. He looked down quickly, his heart skipping a beat. Percival leaned in too, peeking into the red hood and Lancelot quickly shot a glance at him to make sure he wasn’t hurting this fragile creature in his arms. _His arms_. Arms that had beaten and killed, arms forever bloody with the lives of so many. Arms that now enveloped a Fey woman protectively, willing her to stay alive. Her hands, which had been crossed over her chest, came to life only slightly. Fingertips wiggling and twitching as she groaned again, obviously in pain. She was reaching for his hand on her shoulder, fingertips just barely making it there and Lancelot could tell by the way her eyelashes fluttered that she was trying to open her eyes. Why was it that whenever he prayed to God she was the one to answer? A sudden wave of protectiveness came over him, he did not want her to use her energy on this, but he was unsure how to convey it. He reached out and took her hand to stubbornly place it back within the safety of the layers of fabric, when she moved slightly, he held it there and his hand was on fire. A fire that spread like a forest fire through his body. Consuming him.   
“She needs help.” Lancelot looked up at the boy now suddenly resolute. The boy swallowed.  
“Can’t you help her?”  
Lancelot shook his head and felt something ugly rise up within him at the realization that he could not help her, could not do what she needed most.   
“Why can’t you help her? Can’t you just do something to help her?”  
“I’m a killer, not a healer.” Lancelot snapped at the boy and the boy looked down immediately. The words were an ugly realization, one that hit him like lightning, raw like a wound. He had taken so many lives, did he ever _really_ save any of them? He was pulled from his thoughts when Guinevere twitched, an eerie feeling. She seemed to warm only slightly, but Lancelot was unsure if that was actually her or the feverish feeling that had spread through his entire being now. Every atom in his body seemed to be so aware of her arms against his arms, her back pressed against his thigh, her legs over his and her head resting against his chest which held the heart that was betraying exactly how he was feeling. He was so aware of it, it actually hurt.   
“We could go North, find a healer with the Fey.” Percival offered, panic taking over his voice.  
Lancelot glanced back at the edge of the forest where the sky was still glowing with the threat of the Red Paladin camp.   
“She won’t make it that far.” Lancelot hissed.  
“Well what if we take her to a village nearby?”  
“And then what?”   
“Find someone to help!”   
“And have them betray us when they find out _what_ we are?!”   
It was the first time he used that in a sentence. What _we_ are.  
“They won’t!”  
Lancelot huffed in frustration and looked down at Guinevere again, who stubbornly stirred in his arms. He thought about what she had done, how she had thrown herself into danger, barely alive, with seemingly no doubt in her mind about what she was doing, and he got up. He rose to his feet, careful not to move too fast. He held her close as he walked up to his horse with newfound resolve, all the while his body screamed at him, burning.  
“What are you doing?” Percival shot up.  
“You’re right.” Lancelot just said as he struggled to safely get Guinevere on the horse, quickly getting on behind her. She fell back as soon as he was there to catch her, and he pulled her closer so there was space for Percival in the front. Arms slipping around her to keep her from falling.  
“Come on.” He commanded, and the boy rushed to the horse, holding out his arm as Lancelot pulled him up. The boy climbed up in front of Guinevere, ever so careful not to hurt her.   
Lancelot made sure to readjust the cloaks around her, trying not to think as his hand moved along her leg and up her hip to push the fabric in between them to keep her warm. Her back was flush against his chest as her head fell back and to the side, soft hair brushing his chin and Lancelot felt like he might explode.   
“Where are we going?”  
“Getting help.”

  
  
***  
  
 _Guinevere rushed through the village, frustration building up in her with each step as she got closer to her new_ home _. Long hair trailing in the wind behind her, her cheeks flushed as she pushed through the door and headed straight for her husband’s private quarters. She stormed in unannounced and he looked up from the paperwork spread out in front of him on a large table. Guinevere had not expected him to have company. When she noticed his most trusted men flanking his sides she took a deep breath and tried to let it out as discretely as possible. She was fuming but did not show it, instead she waited until she felt calm enough to speak. Fern straightened his back and looked at her expectantly while his men shifted uncomfortable around the room.  
_ _“Milady.” They mumbled, always respectful.  
_ _Guinevere nodded curtly and forced a slight smile. She liked these men, she really did. They were friendly, their wives and children filled her days with laughter and company ever since her and her people had arrived here. They had made her feel welcome.  
_ _“Can I have a moment with him?” Guinevere asked, the words slipped out like a command. A lifelong habit. Her father had raised her and her brothers to lead, not to follow.  
_ _Fern smiled sadly and Guinevere knew why. She had refused to address him as her husband, an honest mistake.  
_ _“Of course, mi—”  
_ _“You can speak in front of them, you know this my love.”  
_ _The sad smile again. The smile that made Guinevere feel equally guilty and frustrated. The smile that told her she was being a terrible wife -again- while their people’s peace relied on their marriage.  
_ _“Very well.” She smiled and walked closer to the table, glancing at the papers there. Maps.  
_ _Guinevere wasn’t ignorant, she knew what he was doing. She had heard it from one of the wives that very morning and even though she had advised against it many times, Fern -she had learned- had not listened. This frustrated her because he had promised her an equal marriage, a partnership, to lead their people_ together _. She glanced at his men first before looking into those amber eyes. They looked at her like this was a test. Guinevere decided to try and pass it this time.  
_ _“I hear you’re planning to travel to the Red Hills in the morning.”  
_ _The look on his face told her she was about to fail his test, so she continued quickly.  
_ _“I was wondering if there’s anything I can do to help?”  
_ _Guinevere was screaming inside, at herself for giving in and at her husband to not go on with his plans to trade with an enemy tribe. Her entire being did not trust his plan. But Fern’s face melted into a soft smile and Guinevere realized this was important. If her people were to survive in this dangerous world, they needed to follow Fern, and they would only follow Fern if_ she _was next to him._ Especially _her brothers.  
_ _Fern moved around his table and reached out, large hands holding her shoulders as he smiled down at her. She smiled back while her mind told her to tell him not to do this.  
_ _“My brave Guin.”  
_ _Guinevere looked down and shook her head, smiling an honest smile now. It felt nice.  
_ _“Will you come with me?”  
_ _This she_ could _do. In fact, she felt better about this proposal than she had about anything in a long time. At least this way she could have some control over what was going to happen. She was surprised to feel acknowledged by his question.  
_ _“Of course.”  
_ _“Excellent!” Fern exclaimed happily, taking her agreeing to come with him as support for his plans and for the moment Guinevere let him have it.  
_ _“But Rowan is coming.” She slipped in a demand now that he was at his weakest, knowing very well he could not tell her no. His smile faded at the sound of her brother’s name, Guinevere’s one true confidant and the best warrior of both tribes. By far.  
_ _“We don’t need him.”  
_ _“We might not. But I want him with us.”  
_ _Fern’s hands dropped from her shoulders and with it his warmth.  
_ _“I have my men.”  
_ _“And I have mine.”  
_ _He turned now, suddenly and leaned on his table, staring down at his maps. Guinevere reached out carefully, her hand touching his shoulder and he stiffened. Not because he didn’t want to be touched, but because he had not expected her to. He relaxed immediately. Guinevere was not the only one who knew how important it was for them to keep the peace. Fern knew this as well, he would also do_ almost _anything to win her heart. Anything but listen to her on trading strategies, it turned out.  
_ _“Tell him he’s expected here before sunrise.”_

Guinevere felt a steady beat against her back, like a knock. Fast and strong. A heartbeat she realized. She couldn’t open her eyes, she couldn’t even move. Everything hurt so badly. Was this hell? Was this the stake they promised her she’d burn at? Did this mean the end was near and this all would stop soon? Where was that face? Where was _his_ face? With eyes the color of water and tears the color of old blood, like pain itself had worked its way from those eyes. There were no sounds in this place between life and death, no scents, nothing to hold onto except for the faint warmth she could feel and that knocking on her back. Guinevere focused on that as she fought the darkness that was ready to come and take her.

_Guinevere felt the warmth of a bowl with hot water in her hands and looked down. She was back home again. When she looked up Fern sat on the edge of their bed, the fire crackling. It was dark outside, the village had finally quieted down.  
_ _Fern’s back was bare and a nasty gash reached from his shoulder all the way along his ribs to his side, old blood covered his skin and next to him was the bloodied shirt that he had worn. Guinevere put down the bowl on his nightstand and quietly got to work cleaning the blood from the wound. She was careful and gentle, sore from the fight but strangely content that she had been right. Something she kept to herself. Fern suddenly pulled back and Guinevere looked up at him questioningly.  
_ _“I could have handled them myself, there was no need for Rowan to intervene…”  
_ _“He tried to help.” Guinevere said carefully.  
_ _“He tried to undermine me.”  
_ _“He’s supposed to protect us.”  
_ _“He’s supposed to protect you. Not me.”  
_ _Guinevere dropped the cloth in his lap now, her breathing had quickened, and she had to bite her cheek to keep herself from snapping at the man. It was his stupid mistake that had caused them supplies and food and had her men hurt. No wonder her people were angry with him. She swallowed and blocked out those thoughts, picking up the cloth again. She would try again. And again. And again. They had to make this work.  
_ _“They’ll come around, you know.” She said, her voice soft. “Give them a few days and they’ll have forgotten all about it.”  
_ _“I doubt it.”  
_ _“Well, you can’t let them get to you. If they see we’re…”  
_ _“We?” Fern looked at her now, his handsome face cold. “There was no_ we _today.”  
_ _“I tried to help you.”  
_ _“You tried to control me.”  
_ _Guinevere dropped the cloth again, this time for good as she rose to her feet, shaking her head in frustration. She had supported him even when she did not agree with his choices, she had followed him without as much as a word, she was tending to his wounds and it still wasn’t enough.  
_ _“I don’t know what you want from me.”  
_ _“I doubt you'd be able to give it to me if you did."  
Fern’s eyes were unkind for the first time since she had met him and it shut something down in Guinevere, something that wasn’t easy for her to reach in the first place. She took in a deep breath and shook her head as she turned.  
_ _“I’m going to check on my men.” She sighed as she walked off, he called after her just before she walked out the door.  
_ _“Don’t you mean_ our _men?”_

***  
  
Lancelot had hoped that when the tension of the fight had left his body, he would feel less restless. The opposite was true. Maybe it had something to do with the boy being out into a human village to find help. Maybe it had more to do with a Fey woman pressed to his body. Or maybe he was fighting grief over someone who in hindsight might’ve treated him horribly. Lancelot was unsure as he stared at the faint glow of lights in the distance. He was getting cold without his cloak as he sat on the ground next to his horse, waiting. With each second that passed Lancelot began to doubt their plan more. Percival had promised him to find help, he had promised he would not get into trouble, that he was a knight and could handle this, but Lancelot was accustomed to the world being cruel and unforgiving. Especially to a young Fey boy.   
He tried to remember how long it had been since the woman in his arms had stirred now that he could no longer feel her breathing. He sat very still, trying to feel a rise and fall of her chest to his but there was nothing. His heart dropped and he looked down at her face, wrapped in red and black and so very pale. Her lips a darker shade of blue than he remembered. He pulled her up higher, even closer, her face pressed against his still warm neck as he fought the cold for the both of them. Her nose was cool against his skin but he could feel her breathe there and relief washed over him.  
“Stay with me.” He mumbled.  
Lancelot was tired. The day had been endless and hard and there was something comforting about holding a body close, something he had never felt before. His eyelids were heavy, his breathing slow, taking in that heady scent that grew stronger as his head slowly sunk down, cheek pressed to another’s head. He could sleep, maybe just a little while…  
There was a crack and Goliath neighed restlessly next to them. Lancelot immediately tensed, eyes wide open, his entire being awake and his head already on the hilt of his weapon. He swallowed, his heart racing as he glanced down at Guinevere. How was he going to do this?  
Another crack and some shuffling and Lancelot was about to get up, sword already pulled from its scabbard when a familiar figure jumped forward.  
“It’s me, it’s me!” the boy hissed, holding up his hands in the air.  
“What took you so long?” Lancelot snarled, dropping the sword.  
“Human’s aren’t exactly _easy_ , you know.”  
“What did you find?” the man demanded.   
“I think you should cover your head.” Percival gestured awkwardly to Lancelot’s hair and face and the man frowned.  
“Did you find help?”  
“I think so.”  
“You _think_ so?”   
“I might need your help. Only a little.”  
Lancelot grimaced at the cheeky voice as he sat up from the tree he was positioned against, glancing down at the woman. Percival was quick to assist, holding her up as the two of them peeled Lancelot’s cloak from her body.  
“We should maybe leave this here…” Percival pointed at the Red Paladin cape. Lancelot eyed him warningly, the woman was already freezing.  
“It’s not far.” He promised.  
Lancelot got up with Guinevere in his arms, leaving her uncovered felt wrong so he shifted awkwardly, doing his best to clumsily wrap his cloak around the both of them. When the boy noticed what he was trying to do he helped him wrap her up and nodded solemnly before he started walking.  
“Follow me.” He said, taking the horse’s reins in his small hands.

“I’m sorry, I can’t help you.”  
Lancelot’s blood was boiling as he stood in front of the open door that Percival had led them to and the person behind it was telling them there was no place for them here. He could feel his hands tighten around Guinevere’s legs and back as anger started to cloud his judgement. Jaws clenched, breath quick as he assessed the person in front of him quietly.   
“Sir, please! She’s hurt, she might not make it if you don’t help us!” Percival was as deceitful as he was brave, Lancelot realized as he looked down at the boy next to him. His eyes were larger than usual, real tears running down his soft cheeks, but he was playing a part.   
The man kept shaking his head, slowly closing the door. Lancelot was quick to step forward and put his foot down.  
“Sir please, my _mother_ is dying.”  
“ _Sister_.” Lancelot leaned in and mumbled as the boy completely ignored the story they had agreed upon, crying more obviously now, clinging to the man’s robes dramatically. Lancelot knew some of his grief and fear were real, maybe even most of it, but he had not seen the boy act like this before.  
“I…I…can’t…”  
“Let us in or you’ll regret it.” Lancelot did not play a part, he stared at the man from the darkness of his hood, hoping it was enough to show him that he was serious.  
“But sir..it’s late and..” the man said, trying to close the door again.  
Lancelot was done with excuses and he moved to kick the door back, the man jumped back and looked up at Lancelot like he was death himself.  
“Help us.” Lancelot demanded as he pushed past the man and into the warmth of the house.  
The man nodded quickly, cheeks flushed, glancing down quickly at Percival who now rushed in swift like an actual squirrel, closing the door behind Lancelot.  
“A-a-lright…” the man mumbled as he turned and started walking. Lancelot followed him, glancing around the house to scan his surroundings for any threats. The man was alone, most of his house dark, he looked like he had just woken up. Lancelot looked down as he felt something pull at his robes, it was Percival, holding on to his arm. He wasn’t acting anymore, he was scared.  
“Put her down here..” the man said, his voice a little calmer now.  
Lancelot entered the room the man was in to see a table like bed in the middle of it. Part of him refused to let go of the woman and this confused him, they wanted the man’s help didn’t they?   
Lancelot stood very still as the man started to light candles, Percival frozen next to him, his round crying eyes taking in the space, eyeing tools spread out on a smaller table.  
“Sir, if you want me to help your wife you have to put her down.”  
Lancelot blinked at the word the man used to describe Guinevere and looked at him as if he only now realized he was there. There was something strange in the man’s eyes, something that resembled pity, but it looked different. Lancelot looked from the man to Guinevere and back at the man while he moved toward the table.  
“What happened?” the man said as he started gathering instruments and water and small flasks and bottles.  
Lancelot moved intently, slowly unraveling Guinevere from his robes and embrace and onto the table and it felt strange to let her go. He stepped back and part of him knew he was asked something, but he could not bring himself to answer.  
“We were attacked.” Percival answered quickly, hovering by the table, clinging to Guinevere’s arm as he watched the man assess her injuries. Lancelot watched suspiciously, eyes fixed upon the man’s hands as he scrutinized every movement and every touch, his hand slowly moving to rest on his sword. The man eyes him nervously.  
“By whom?”   
“Can you help her?” Lancelot asked, avoiding the question.  
The man looked down at her again, eyes traveling from injury to injury, and he swallowed as small beads of sweat started to form on his forehead.  
“I can try…”  
“So, try.” Lancelot demanded again, stepping back, pulling Percival with him, crossing his arms as he stared at the man.  
“I…I…ehm..should he be seeing this?” the man gestured to Percival, who stood staring at Guinevere’s face.  
“He’s seen worse.”  
“A boy shouldn’t watch his mother…”  
“What?” Lancelot snarled, daring the man to finish that sentence. She wasn’t his mother, he didn’t get the problem. Percival wanted him to help her, so here they were.  
“I need space to work.” The man suddenly said.  
Lancelot took another step backward, giving the man exactly the amount of space he was comfortable with while never breaking eye contact. The man swallowed again.  
“I meant…” the man looked at the open door and back at Lancelot, who stood very still.  
“I’m not leaving her.” Lancelot did not trust the man to do as he had promised. If Guinevere was to die, he would stay to make sure it was because she it was too late, not because a stranger made a mistake.   
“But sir..”   
Lancelot could feel Percival look up at him, he could also feel him pull at his arm and pulled it away from him. He looked down at the woman on that table, pale face, blue lips, blood everywhere.   
“I’m not leaving her.” He repeated.   
“But your son, sir.”  
Lancelot’s mind was so preoccupied he did not even feel like correcting the man as he called Percival his son. Maybe it was better if the man believed the story the boy had made up, better if he thought they were a human family instead of… He looked down at the boy, who looked genuinely upset but sympathy did not rise in him, instead he felt annoyed that the child had asked for his help but was now forcing him to leave Guinevere with this _stranger_.  
“He can wait outside. I’m not leaving her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we're not out of the woods yet....but I promise things will get better soon(ish)?


	12. Heal

11.  
  
_____  
  


_I am aching now to let you in_

Lancelot didn’t know if it was deep in the night or almost morning by the time the man announced he had finished his work for now.   
“Now, we pray.” He said, hand holding on to the cross around his neck.   
“Do you want me to get your boy?”  
Lancelot looked up from Guinevere’s face for only the second time that night -the first when he had averted his gaze to not lay eyes on her exposed skin when the man tended to her wounds- to meet the man’s gaze and shook his head. Although the world around him seemed quiet, he felt like it was still spinning out of control. He needed a little time alone after the events of the day.  
“I’ll return by sunrise. Feel free to rest here.”   
The man gestured to a wide window seat as he started to blow out most of the candles in the room, filling it with the scent of smoke. He left quietly, only two candles left burning, filling the room with a faint glow. Lancelot waited until the door closed, listened as it fell into place and as it did, he let go of the breath he had been holding for what felt like hours. The weight of it heavy as it fell off of him like the weight of the world. He moved to grab the stool the man had been on and sat down next to the table. Lancelot rubbed his face, his head throbbing angrily. He pulled off his hood out of respect for his God, folded his hands together solemnly and propped his elbows up on the table next to Guinevere’s still body. For the first time in days he prayed.  
Lancelot felt his back itch with a dark need born out of habit. But he could not afford to weaken himself now, no matter how badly he longed for some form of release from the grief that crashed over him. He pressed his forehead to his hands and closed his eyes, so tired the words barely formed in his mind and hardly passed his lips, but his body was overwhelmed with the need for guidance from his heavenly father.  
“Holy Lord, please…” his voice broke even at a whisper and he was torn from his prayer by the door swinging open and Percival rushing in. He was crying and stormed toward Lancelot, crashing into him and Lancelot’s hands parted only to hold onto the boy awkwardly. Percival was trembling as his short arms slipped around Lancelot in that strange gesture again. The man did not move, instead he sat very still, eyes again focused on Guinevere’s face which looked ghostly in the candlelight. The boy followed his gaze and let go of Lancelot, moving in slowly.  
“Is she going to be alright?” he asked carefully as his hands held onto the side of the table.  
Guinevere was covered by a large blanket, hiding most of the damage embalmed in ointments and wrapped in linen and Lancelot almost believed she could wake up any moment. Almost. Because he knew what the wounds had looked like, how the man had worked at them with sweat covering his forehead, how he mused at the blood loss and burns while Lancelot kept their story shrouded in mystery.  
“I don’t know.”  
Percival looked up at him now and in his eyes Lancelot could see it had not been the answer he wanted to hear.   
“You should sleep.” He continued.  
“I can’t.” Percival crossed his arms and glared at him.  
Lancelot tilted his head back and closed his eyes for a moment, breathing one, twice, until frustration subsided, and he could look at the boy again. He knew that look, Lancelot himself had given it to a man with much less patience.  
“Sleep.” He repeated, jerking his head to the window seat.  
The boy seemed to consider that plan for a moment, shifting his eyes between Lancelot, the woman and the seat which started to look more and more comfortable the longer Lancelot looked at it.  
“Are you alright?” Percival’s clear voice asked now, staring at Lancelot as if he could see right through him. He could not remember the last time anyone had asked the question and frowned, unsure how to answer. He nodded once and the boy nodded back, slowly turning to move to the window seat, making himself comfortable there.  
“She’ll wake up soon enough.” he mumbled sleepily from the corner of the wide seat, more to himself than to anyone else.   
“Just like magic, you’ll see.”  
Lancelot turned his head to look at her again and all the need for prayer seemed to have faded. Her hair was pulled to the side over one shoulder, spilling down in dark waves, long lashes casting shadows over pale cheeks. There was a shallow cut on her cheekbone and a deeper one dividing one of her brows in two halves and he was relieved to see she was still breathing. Steadily, _still fighting_. Lancelot couldn’t help but think she seemed just like magic even still asleep.

***  
  
Guinevere gasped herself awake as if she was once again pulled from her rest by smelling salts. Fear had frozen her in place but was quickly replaced by _so much pain_. Her skin was burning as were her lungs and when she tried to move her body did not respond. This scared her.

Her eyes were fixed upon a wooden ceiling and for one short and blissful moment of confusion she thought she was _home_. When her eyes finally focused she noticed the difference in the wood, the beams did not match the construction of her home and the dark cold truth settled over her, making the hairs on her arms rise and her heart stopped. Her breathing was quick now as she willed her body to move, to get up, to _run_. But nothing responded, all of it too heavy for her to lift. Her eyes shifted down to see a blanket over her body, back up to see the strange ceiling again, farther up to see a single candle. A terrified sound started to form in the back of her throat but got stuck there as Guinevere dug her nails into whatever she was placed on. She tried to remember where she was, how she got here, and her head hurt with the effort. Memories crept up on her, of a small boy with a cheeky smile and a man with weeping eyes. Her heart ached at the thought of what must have happened. She forced herself to focus, to retrace her steps as best she could to figure out where she was and how she was going to get to safety. When she slowed her breathing she could feel fabric on her skin that felt foreign and coarse. Wrapped around her hands and arms and body. How did those get there? Her head protested each time she tried to go deeper into her memory.   
Guinevere swallowed and a hot salty tear escaped from the corner of her eye and made its way down her temple, tickling her skin. She turned her head to keep the drop from slipping into her ear and saw two figures in the darkness of the strange room. She closed her eyes, trying to remember what had happened, trying so hard to remember where she was but she did not remember this room. Thinking hurt her head, especially the back where it felt hot and throbbed violently and each time she tried to make her brain work for her she was nauseous with effort. Her eyes fluttered open again, another gasp, fighting the darkness that tried to pull her back. Head too heavy to move so she waited for her vision to clear and focus again on the shapes by the window which proved to be harder than she thought. Her vision moving in and out of focus as she grew frustrated with herself and _so very tired_. Where was she? Was she safe? Was she even alive? Fear grew inside of her when her vision finally focused on the figures beyond. She could see the boy with the cheeky smile, this calmed her down instantly although she was unsure why. The thought too complex for her brain to understand right now. He was sleeping. He wasn’t hurt, he wasn’t chained or held. Guinevere wanted to reach out, she wanted to say something but all that happened was the slightest twitch of a fingertip and her lips parting in vain. The young boy looked peaceful and warm and _safe_. She understood this was important but could not quite tell why. He was curled up against another shape, head resting on long legs wrapped in black. She followed the black fabric up to a hand resting over the pommel of a sword, long fingers relaxed with sleep. Her eyes moved along the sleeve that started there, seeing straps of leather and frayed black wraps, a long neck and strong jaw and a face weeping dark tears even while asleep. The Weeping Monk. Her heart skipped an uncomfortable beat, but her mind protested. _No_. That name felt wrong. Why did that feel wrong?

Guinevere regretted asking the question as events of the day came rushing back, dawning upon her, her temperature rising and breath quickening again. She tried to focus on that face again, remembering it was once the face of her enemy. But this had changed, it was the face that made her feel safe when she thought it was something she’d never feel again. She tried to move again, say something, because she did not want to be alone with this pain and fear. She remembered his eyes, the eyes that had changed forever when she had learned his secret. She remembered now. She remembered the fight, how it felt, she remembered killing the man that had taunted him -them- for what they were and how he had looked at her after she did. But most of all she remembered the sound of his voice…” _to pass in the twilight”_ the words echoed in her mind, making a home there as she watched him sleep until darkness came to get her again.   
  
***  
  
Lancelot shot up at the sound of the door opening, immediately alert, hand slipping around the hilt of his sword in a habitual reflex. The boy mumbled as he sat up, rubbing his eyes to rid them of sleep.  
“Get up.” Lancelot hissed warningly, his eyes fixed on the door as if it opening was a danger in and of itself. Percival followed his gaze and Lancelot noticed how he moved to reach for the knife Guinevere had given him.  
Lancelot stood and moved between the door and Guinevere on the table as someone entered the room, hand still over his weapon as his other hand flexed nervously. He only now noticed his body was sore and his neck stiff.  
The figure before him looked up and Lancelot saw a very tiny old human woman carrying what looked like fresh clothes and linen. She looked up at him with her wrinkly face but did not say a word. The two of them stared at each other for a long uncomfortable moment and Lancelot was thankful Percival spoke up.  
“Hello.” Percival said carefully as he got up, Lancelot glanced down to see the boy next to him. The old woman looked at him and still said nothing. Percival lifted one eyebrow and Lancelot couldn’t help but agree with that expression.  
He stepped back when the woman moved forward and around them and turned quickly to follow her every move. Percival did the same, never leaving his side. The woman put the pile of fabric down and started to roll the blanket back, peeling it from Guinevere’s body. Revealing dirty clothes and bloodstained bindings. Percival wanted to rush up to Guinevere, but Lancelot got a hold of his tunic and held him back, watching as the woman started to braid Guinevere’s long hair with long bony fingers. The hair that smelled like the first days of autumn in a forest.  
Lancelot’s hand moved from his sword and he relaxed, only slightly, and let go of Percival who watched quietly. When the woman was done braiding her hair, her wrinkled hands moved up to the laces that held whatever was left of Guinevere tunic together, fumbling patiently and as she made her way down Lancelot watched in confusion. The woman handled it all with such care and gentleness, he had hardly seen anything like it. When she pulled the fabric apart his heart skipped a beat and he was quick to look down, face flushed at the slightest glimpse of exposed skin he had caught by accident and he cleared his throat and turned around, pulling the boy with him as they awkwardly moved back to the window seat. Lancelot was glad to see the boy was just as taken aback by the ordeal, his soft cheeks rosy and his eyes big. Lancelot busied himself with looking out of the window to see the start of dawn outside. He could see a garden with wild roses and a well and beyond that the woods that seemed to be calling out to him, promising safety. His eyes shifted to the reflection in the glass of the woman carefully dressing a limp body and Lancelot’s cheeks burned, his heart racing as he looked down again, very aware that he should not be seeing any of this so instead he focused on the boy.  
“You should sleep some more, it’s almost morning.” He tried reassuringly.  
Percival sat on the window seat and pulled his legs up, leaning his face against the glass as he looked outside and sighed sadly, Lancelot felt awkward and incompetent, unsure of what to do or say.  
“I want to go home.”  
Lancelot swallowed, trying to block out the idea of whatever was happening behind him, and watched the boy thoughtfully. He understood what that felt like even though he could hardly remember, he had been in that position, the feeling of it still haunted his dreams.  
“Once she’s better we’ll take you home.” Lancelot promised quietly.  
“That’s not home.” Percival pouted and Lancelot felt equally frustrated as guilty. He was tired and confused and hurting and he did _not_ know how to deal with a child.  
“Home is gone.” Percival spat and Lancelot glanced back at the woman for a moment, making sure she had not heard the words because they would surely rise suspicion, as would his behavior he realized. Lancelot’s mind was racing, wishing Guinevere was awake because she knew how to deal with this better than he did. The dark realization crept up on him that Percival’s home was gone because of him, because of the Red Paladin’s. It felt like ironic punishment to have to witness what his actions had really done. A punishment that was too much for this night. Too much for one man.  
“I’m sorry.” Lancelot said as he sat down, suddenly defeated.  
Percival looked up from the window and stared at him in surprise, large eyes blinking slow.  
“I’m sorry, Squirrel.” He repeated, the words ripping from him and it hurt more than any of the wounds still on his body. He bent down, resting his face in his hands, hiding from the world and Lancelot wanted to disappear. He wanted to _not be_ , just for a little while. But he still was, he was alive and hurting and tired and scared and warm as two small arms slipped around his neck and a small shape pressed against his back. Percival’s eyelashes tickled at the side of his neck and his arms wrapped around his neck so tight it was hard to breathe but despite him being uncomfortable it actually felt _nice_. Lancelot moved his hand up awkwardly, putting it over the boy’s arm as a response and Percival tightened his hold on the man. Finally, Lancelot gave in and relaxed, letting himself get a just taste of forgiveness even when he knew he was unworthy of it.

The healer was back at sunrise, as promised. Percival was quiet as he watched the man change bandages for fresh ones under Lancelot’s watchful eye.  
“Did she wake up at all?”  
Lancelot shook his head.  
“Have you and the boy slept?”  
A slight nod.  
“I will have my mother bring you food later.”  
“Thank you.” Lancelot murmured absentmindedly.  
“We have taken the liberty of moving your horse to our garden, I hope that’s alright with you.”  
The man looked up from his work, frightened eyes turning bolder as Lancelot nodded again.  
“Can I go see him?” Percival asked behind them and Lancelot turned his head just slightly to listen to the boy. Mind racing once again.  
“Please?” Lancelot wanted to tell him to be careful, to take his knife and use it if needed but realized this might appear strange. He hoped Percival would be wise enough to do this without him asking and nodded once, the boy rushed from the room as if he had been waiting to leave it for a while now. The man seemed to find this amusing and chuckled as he went back to work. Lancelot’s hands balled into fists at the sight of Guinevere’s burnt palms. He was confused to feel intense hatred bubble up inside him like a sickness.  
“These look intentional.” The man started, pulling Lancelot from his thoughts. “As does this…” the man pointed at Guinevere’s chest, where a nasty blistering burn was covered in an herbal balm. Lancelot recognized the symbol, he had once considered it holy but now it just looked evil.  
“Was your wife tortured?”  
Lancelot refused to answer any of the questions the man was asking, just like the night before. Especially now that he was getting closer to the truth. The two of them stared at each other, the man suspiciously as Lancelot kept his face blank.  
“Very well, then..” the man mumbled, returning to work. “how old is your boy?”  
Lancelot looked back at the door through which Percival had left and realized he did not have an answer to that question, which he knew would seem odd.  
“Ten.” He lied. Or maybe he was right. He didn't know.  
“What’s his name?”  
Lancelot eyed the man suspiciously, but he was patiently working on wrapping Guinevere’s hand in fresh cloth. Making conversation was never something Lancelot was good at.  
“Squirrel.” He answered, withholding the boy’s real name purposefully.  
“That’s an odd name.”  
“Yes, it is.” Lancelot agreed as he sat down slowly, eyes fixed upon the man’s hands as he worked. The man laughed again, the sound strange to Lancelot but mostly irritating.   
“So, her choice then aye?”  
How could he sit here, attempting to talk to a man he did not care about, about things he knew nothing about, while his entire world had just fallen apart? Lancelot felt like he was spinning. He needed to be alone. He needed time to think. He needed space. He needed his head to _just go quiet_.  
“Are you almost done?” the words came out before he realized.  
The man looked up at him, eyes narrowed.  
“In a hurry, lad?”  
Lancelot narrowed his own eyes, glaring at the man darkly.  
“Stop asking questions and do your job,” Lancelot’s hand hovered over his weapon, he made a point out of showing the man, “or I will make you.”  
The man glanced at the shimmering silver of the pommel at Lancelot’s hip and swallowed, the fear from the night before returning.  
“Yes, sir.” 

  
***  
  
 _“Again.”  
_ _“But Rowan..”  
_ _“Again.”  
_ _Guinevere got up from the ground, dirt on her clothes, leaves in her hair. It had been the fifth time her brother had slammed her to the ground and she was done. She didn’t want to do this anymore.  
_ _“Get up.” His voice was stern but never mean.  
_ _And so, Guinevere got up, pushing herself from the ground, wiping the blood from her chin. She had bitten her tongue during the fall. She straightened her back, cocked her head to the side causing her neck to crack. She raised her hands up, stance determined, ready for another go as she faced her brother who smirked at her proudly. This made her chest swell with pride and she grinned back at him, a slight gesture of her hand daring him to try again.  
_ _“That’s it, little sister.” Rowan laughed, wide and loud and entirely, the way one does when the world is still a hopeful place. The laugh was driven from his face when Guinevere’s fist made contact with his stomach, he groaned in pain and admiration as he locked his arms around her waist. Guinevere knew she was in trouble, but she wouldn’t let him take her down easy, not this time. Not again. She fought him with all that he had taught her, and he laughed as he struggled to keep her in place.  
_ _“Come on, Guin. You can do this.” He said.  
_ _Guinevere slipped from his hold, turning the tables quickly, attempting to slip her arms up and around his neck but he was faster.  
_ _“Come on, sis! Fight!” he pushed her harder, hit her where it hurt but Guinevere wouldn’t give up, not this time. She would show him she could do this. And so, she struggled and fought until he planted her down on her back, exactly where she needed to be. She smirked, grinning wide as she looked up at her brother who’s face changed from triumphant to curious when finally,_ finally _, she hooked her leg around his and tackled him swiftly. She quickly climbed on top of him, pinning him down as she laughed in victory. When she looked down at Rowan he was smiling, and Guinevere looked at him curiously.  
_ _“Now,_ wake up _.”_

Guinevere gasped for air, the emotion of her dream still lingering in her body as she woke to this strange room again, barely remembering the first time. It looked different now and she was unsure if this was even the same space. She felt like her heart was beating in her throat and was only pulled from the panic that was starting to take over when she heard a voice.  
“ _Guinevere_.”  
It wasn’t quite a whisper but it took her a moment to realize where the voice was coming from.  
 _“Guinevere, it’s alright.”  
_ She relaxed slightly, believing the voice as her head grew heavy. She felt like she was sinking. She wanted to reach out, to grab something to keep her from sinking into the ground. She did not realize she had been doing this physically until someone held her down.  
“ _Born in the dawn..”_   
She searched for the face belonging to that voice, it took her a moment, and then her eyes had to adjust, but she found him. Eyes the color of water, tears the color of blood. A worried face with a deep frown and she smiled softly in relief, feeling dizzy from the effort of moving.  
“ _Lancelot_.” She said as if she only now remembered the name, staring at the man’s face as if it was the only anchor keeping her from slipping back into her restless dreams. Her eyelids were heavy, and blinking felt like a true effort, but those eyes were worth it. She watched as he sat down again, when did he get up?  
“Guinevere.” He said solemnly, as if this was some sort of formal meeting.  
Guinevere had to catch her breath simply from speaking, taking her time to do so, dozing off slightly and as her head fell to the side the motion woke her up again. She moved her head back to look at Lancelot, whose face was close and still very worried. She frowned at that.  
“Squirrel?” she asked, only able to make one-word sentences and even those hurt. She moved her hand, searching, fingertips running along the table until she reached fabric that radiated heat. A sleeve. Guinevere’s fingers pulled at the fabric and found their way over his arm. The man looked down at his arm and back up, he did not stop her.  
“He’s safe.” The words felt like a promise.  
She sighed in relief and nodded slightly, a mistake because she was instantly punished by a spinning room.  
“Guin—” her head fell to the side again but there was something warm there to catch it. “Look at me.”  
She obeyed him willingly, glad her head was supported by that warm thing. What was that? Guinevere looked at the man and he looked _so sad_. Grief etched into his face, his blue eyes filled with so much pain they seemed to be made out of tears. The color of water. Calling to her. Guinevere’s hand let go of his arm and moved up, which hurt but wasn’t impossible, she could see how it was wrapped in white as she moved it up, eyes quickly shifting back to his. He sat very still, watching her with those sad eyes. Her fingertips found their way to his cheek and she was careful to be as tender as she could. They hovered there for a moment as she detected fear in his eyes, and then her fingertips brushed along warm skin, running down to follow the mark of his tears.  
“Don’t be sad, weeping man.” She smiled, dizzy and in pain and peaceful all at once.   
“It’ll all be alright.” 

  
***  
  
  
He got up at the very sound of her gasp, kicking back the stool in the process. So much for some time to think.   
Lancelot looked down at her and he could tell she was scared. Eyes wild and searching and his heart beat fast as he tried to think of what to do. And just like the night before, when his mind was unsure, his body took over. He rushed forward.  
“Guinevere.” Saying her name still felt strangely intimate.   
She did not respond, and Lancelot couldn’t help but think she seemed very far away.  
“Guinevere, it’s alright.”   
The promise slipped from his lips without him realizing he could say things like that. It did not have the desired effect though and Guinevere started to move, something her body was _not_ ready for yet. He panicked for a moment but knew he had to stop her, carefully pinning her down, hovering close as he tried something else. She was scared, she was confused, maybe she needed…  
“Born in the dawn…” he tried.   
Guinevere was searching now, her eyes finally finding his and he waited patiently for her to recognize him. He had not expected her to smile, when she did it was slight and small, it crinkled the skin on her nose slightly and it was beautiful.  
“ _Lancelot_.”  
The world had been spinning for an entire day and an entire night and it suddenly stopped. The room was quiet, and Lancelot felt like it disappeared around them. He moved to sit down, staying close.  
“Guinevere.” He replied, he hardly recognized his own voice, which was warm.  
The woman looked very tired, catching her breath from speaking his name alone. He watched her closely and she dozed off, dropping her head only to pull it back up and look at him again.  
“Squirrel?” she asked, worried. He did not want her to worry, he realized he did not want her to do anything that might further hurt her at all. Lancelot was surprised when he felt something pull at his sleeve, he looked down to see her small hand slip over his arm. He could feel the warmth through the fabric over his sleeve, it sent a shiver up his spine. He looked at it before looking back.  
“He’s safe.” He promised, voice deep with the sensation of her hand still on his arm. Guinevere sighed in relief and nodded and he could tell she was slipping away again, eyelids heavy, lashes fluttering, fighting to stay awake.  
“Guin—” he caught her head in his hand before it could hit the table, Lancelot looked at his own hand in surprise and then back at the woman’s face.  
“Look at me.”  
He just needed her to look at him again, to keep the world from spinning. He just needed a little more time with the quiet in his head. One more look at those dark brown eyes that looked at him differently now that the truth was out. She looked at him, eyes suddenly wide open and glued to his. She moved and he did not stop her this time, not even when they were close to his face, reaching out, not even when he wanted to pull back because nothing good ever came from hands moving toward his face like that. He did not move, he was barely breathing. Guinevere’s fingertips touched his cheek and fire spread from them, setting his entire being on ablaze. Her fingertips were soft, brushing along his cheek like petals and Lancelot fought the urge to close his eyes. They ran down slowly, following the marks like they were lines on a map. He knew she was only half awake, he knew she was exhausted and hurt, he knew there might be a chance she would not remember this moment, but he would hold it close forever.  
“Don’t be sad, weeping man.” She smiled and Lancelot felt the corner of his lip twitch in return, as if his face wanted to mirror hers, but he didn’t know how to make it do that. Or maybe he was just scared.  
“It’ll all be alright.”

He couldn’t help but believe her.

  
***  
  
When Guinevere woke up again it was dark in the room and someone small was crawling onto the bed next to her. His small hands brushed past her skin and they were cold. Guinevere struggled to move but managed to shift slightly, lifting the blanket that was over her as Squirrel carefully snuggled up to her. She didn’t speak until he was next to her, his clear eyes staring at her in the twilight. He pulled the blanket up to his chin and Guinevere thought he looked much younger now than he had since she had met him.  
“I didn’t mean to wake you.” He whispered.  
Guinevere felt slightly better, or at least the thought so. Memories of dreams strung together like a jumbled mess in her mind, haunting her still, of home, of Fern and her brother, of the weeping man, and of this small boy who was very real next to her. She looked at him and raised her hand to his cheek, touching it as if she wanted to make sure he was there.   
“Are you okay?” she managed to ask, her voice barely a whisper.   
“I’m fine.”  
“Are we safe?”  
“I think so. They got us food.”  
Guinevere smiled at the boy’s obsession with food and rested her forehead against his as her hand slid down again, its weight to heavy.  
“Good.” She sighed in relief.  
“How are you feeling?” Squirrel asked softly, and Guinevere could feel small fingers play with the ends of her braid as he watched her.   
“Like I almost died.” She joked, but the boy didn’t seem to think it was funny. He looked down quickly, pouting and Guinevere felt bad for upsetting him.   
“Hey,” she said, brushing her nose against his face to make him look at her.  
“At least I got your pet back.” She smiled but Squirrel did not seem convinced yet, sulking still.  
“Come here.” She groaned, pulling him closer carefully, hurting herself in the process but continuing to adjust herself to make space for him anyway. The boy nuzzled into her neck gratefully and Guinevere rested her head on his, closing her eyes as she sighed, ready to fall asleep again when she realized something. Her eyes shot open again.  
“Squirrel…”  
Guinevere asked carefully, the boy sniffed a little but did not move.  
“Yeah?”  
“He’s Fey.”  
“I know.”  
“You know?” Guinevere frowned and pulled back to look at him again.  
“He doesn’t like to talk about it.” The boy said with a strange kind of sympathy in his voice and Guinevere still wondered what exactly these two had gone through before they met. She frowned, confused and in need of answers but also sleep. Her mind raced and it hurt her head but she couldn’t help but wonder how a Fey man had ended up in that hateful place, and how they had let him live if they despised him so much.   
“I know you hate him.” Squirrel started. “But I’m glad you got him back.”  
“I don’t hate him.”  
“He doesn’t hate you either, you know.” The boy said sleepily, snuggling against her again, his voice quieter now and Guinevere caught herself smiling in the dark.  
“Sleep, silly boy.”  
“Will you still be here in the morning?” the sleepy voice asked, and her heart ached for the boy.  
“I’ll be here. Promise.”

And Guinevere meant it, she had something to live for again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was sad when I wrote this, which you can probably tell, but I promise better days are coming ;-)


	13. Break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this took me a little longer than usual, *but* it is also quite long. I hope you enjoy it, it's a big one!

12.  
  
_____  
  


_you know the famine so well, but never met the feast_

_Lancelot woke from a nightmare filled with fire and smoke and screams of people he wasn’t supposed to remember. He knew this because he had been beaten for mentioning them earlier that day. Small hands rubbed his soft face. The boy was shaking, from fear and the cold. Those two often went hand in hand here.  
_ _“Father?” he called out to the figure that slept across from him in the tent.  
_ _There were no other children here, no one that looked like Lancelot did. Father Carden made him hide his face a lot, stained with tears that Lancelot was never allowed to cry. God did not want his warriors to be weak, there was important work to be done.  
_ _“What is it?!” the man grumbled and moved like a thunderstorm and Lancelot recoiled instinctively. He was up so quickly Lancelot had no time to think, and the fear from his nightmare was quickly drowned out by a new -much more real- fear. Father Carden towered over him in the dark, expecting an answer, looking around to see what the reason was for waking him.  
_ _“Speak, boy! What is it?!”  
_ _Lancelot froze, frightened to tell the man that he had a nightmare and was scared because this seemed like a mistake now.  
_ _“I..” the boy tried to start but the words did not come.  
_ _“Father, I…” his voice was weak and trembling, betraying his fear and the man bent down to look into large blue eyes with ones that could be best describes as ice. The man lifted his hand, wiggled it so his long red sleeve fell back and out of the way, and moved it up to Lancelot’s small face. Careful at first, until rough fingertips touched real, wet tears and his face fell. The boy was petrified, staring up at his guardian, a sliver of hope still there for some empathy. Just anything to soothe his pain.  
_ _“Have you been crying, boy?” Father Carden never said his name.  
_ _Lancelot feared he might forget it someday and repeated it to himself just to remember. Or maybe to feel like a little bit of home was still with him even when he knew he was supposed to forget about home, or he would go to this awful place called hell.  
_ _Part of Lancelot wanted to lie, shake his head and be brave, but the evidence was on his face and Father Carden had already caught him in the act. The boy nodded slowly.  
_ _“A nightmare?” the man asked, his voice suddenly softer and Lancelot nodded eagerly. Desperate for the man to tell him it would all be alright, like he had done when they first met. But he was met with a sharp pain in his left cheek and tears filled his eyes again, but he refused to let them fall, his skin burning hot as Lancelot pressed his little hands to it. Pressure made it hurt less, he had learned this by now.  
_ _“That’s what you get when you let the Devil inside your head, boy.”  
_ _“But Father..”  
_ _“Do not!” A finger pointed at him warningly and the child knew not to push the man any further.  
_ _“You do not wake me unless it is absolutely necessary.” Father Carden growled.  
_ _“Yes, Father.”  
_ _“Anything haunting your sleep is_ nothing _compared to the fires of hell that await you if you do not listen to me, boy.”  
_ _“Yes, Father.” Lancelot suppressed a sniff, knowing it was better to be as silent as possible.  
_ _“Now, go back to bed. Pray for your soul and get to sleep. I do not want to hear from you until morning.”_

 _  
Something soft touched Lancelot’s cheek and where it had been burning painfully before it was now glowing with something comfortable, like sunshine on your face on a cold day.  
“Don’t be sad, weeping man.”   
Lancelot felt like opening his eyes, his eyelids already fluttering, letting in light as he struggled to stay in this moment for a little while longer just to hear her say it.   
_“It’ll all be alright.”

Lancelot was awakened by the soft sound of glass clashing and he shot up to find the healer in the room. Lancelot watched him closely, hand hovering over his sword like always, and noticed the man was shaking. This had caused him to knock over some of his vials.  
“Everything alright?” Lancelot asked darkly, still watching the man’s every move as he turned around quickly, obviously startled.  
“Ah, yes, sir. Of course, sir. I was just…” the man looked back at his worktable, “…clumsy that’s all.”   
Lancelot sat up slowly and was surprised to notice he had slept until morning. Outside the first snow of the year had fallen overnight, reflecting sunlight and making the room bright. He looked around to search for Percival, and the healer quickly gestured to Guinevere. Lancelot found the boy curled up next to her.   
“Poor little lad.” The man said, a faint nervous vibrato still in his voice, Lancelot noted how he was trying to hide it. He frowned and got up, wanting to pull Percival back and away from Guinevere to make sure he wasn’t hurting her but when he got closer, he stopped, looking down at the two of them asleep.  
“You’re a lucky man.” The man said again as Lancelot hovered next to the pair of Fey sleeping on the bed. He did not reply.  
“I brought soup and water, when she wakes up make sure she drinks all of it.”  
“I will.” Lancelot said absentmindedly, staring at Percival’s hand holding the end of Guinevere’s braid.  
“What direction did you say you were coming from again?” the man asked suddenly, and Lancelot’s eyes shot up at him, glaring.  
“I didn’t.”  
“Right.”   
The two of them stood staring at each other for a long time and the man finally gave in, averting his gaze as he busied himself with his things again. Lancelot did not lose the man out of his sight as he stood next to the bed where Percival started to stir.  
“When will she be fit for travel?” Lancelot asked suddenly, the eerie feeling that had been creeping up on him forcing him to think ahead and come up with a plan.  
“Travel?” the man turned in genuine surprise. “Where will you be going?”  
Silence again as Lancelot kept his face blank, the man was asking too many questions, this only strengthened this uneasy sentiment. When the healer seemed to understand that Lancelot wasn’t going to answer that question, he continued.  
“Days, maybe weeks. It would be a miracle if she’d be able to walk anytime soon.”  
This answer nauseated Lancelot. He was appalled by how easily one could be stripped from all strength. She had been remarkably strong when they met, years of training apparent in her posture alone and it had been beaten out or her in hours. Where torture had seemed like a necessary evil before, it suddenly seemed inhumane, monstrous even. How could anything good ever come out of such evil? Lancelot felt guilty for questioning the Red Paladin ways, but his mind couldn’t stop these questions.  
“What can I do?” the question slipped from his lips, his body once again betraying his mind and the man looked up at him with something in his eyes that Lancelot couldn’t decode.   
“You can wait. Make her eat something when she wakes up. Keep her calm.”  
All of those seemed like impossible tasks to Lancelot, if only the man knew what type of woman he was dealing with, he would’ve never offered the advice. He looked down again at Percival, who’s eyes were fluttering open slowly.  
“I’ll leave you to it.” The man mumbled and hastily left the room.  
Lancelot waited for him to be gone before he moved to tug at Percival’s shoulder. The boy grumbled sleepily, pulling his shoulder back as he moved to snuggle up against the woman, pulling up the blanket. Lancelot tugged harder now, almost pulling the boy off the table.  
“What is it?” the boy turned and hissed, getting up and off the table moodily.  
Lancelot wasn’t sure how to answer, he wasn’t sure why he wanted Percival to leave Guinevere alone. He wasn’t sure of anything if he was honest.  
“I was just having a good dream.” The boy mumbled as he stomped around the room, his face suddenly moving up as he sniffed. His curious nose leading him to the soup that the healer had just brought.  
“No.” Lancelot warned, looking at the boy who cheekily made his way to the bowl.  
“But I’m hungry.”  
“It’s not yours.”  
“But she’s sleeping.” Percival said, peeking at the soup and eyeing the piece of bread next to it.  
“Still no.”  
Percival crossed his arms in front of his chest and huffed, pouting before he looked outside.  
“It snowed!”  
Lancelot looked outside too now, unimpressed by the change of weather, only noting the inconvenience of the cold.  
“Is it a lot? It looks like a lot.” The boy climbed on the window seat and pressed his nose to the cold glass.  
“It must be very cold outside, don’t you think?”  
“Do you think they’re looking for us?”   
“Do you think they could find us here?”  
“How are we going to travel when there’s snow?”  
The boy fired question after question at him, making Lancelot’s head spin, wishing he’d just stop talking.  
“What happened anyway?”  
“Why did you go back?”  
“Are you an idiot?”  
Lancelot felt like his head was going to explode, knuckles turning white as he balled his fists and clenched his jaw. He wanted to scream. He prayed hard for his own self-control when a sickly cough caught both his and Percival’s attention. 

  
***  
  
She woke because she was cold, and when Guinevere opened her eyes the boy was gone. Blanket left thrown back, which explained the cold. Her hand reached out to the part of the bed where he had slept, it was still warm, she could hear him in the room and relaxed in relief. His voice chipper and clear, like a bird in the woods. Guinevere tried to sit up but failed, triggering a coughing fit as she shivered uncontrollably.  
“Guin!” Squirrel was at her side before she could try and sit up again.  
Guinevere blinked, the room was very bright and outside the world had turned white. The light hurt her head as she propped herself up on her elbows.   
“You should stay down.”  
Guinevere’s heart skipped a beat at the sound of that low voice, and she turned to see the weeping man - _Lancelot_ \- standing in the middle of the room, arms awkwardly at his sides, hood thrown back. He looked less ominous like that, handsome even. She swallowed and pushed away that thought, ignored his advice, and struggled to sit up. The boy helped her do so, quickly rushing about the room to gather pillows to support her back. She smiled at him and rested back into the pile of pillows gratefully, reluctant to admit she needed them to stay upright.  
“Do you want water?” Squirrel asked as he rushed back and forth again. “There’s soup. Do you want soup?”  
“How are you feeling?” that voice again, it sent an unvoluntary shiver up her spine and she looked from Squirrel to the man.  
“Like the Red Paladins tried to kill me.”   
The words slipped from her stubborn mouth before she could stop them and the man looked down at his feet, nodding slowly.  
“The healer said you should eat the soup.” He answered, still not looking at her.  
“Okay.” Guinevere replied, an undefined sense of guilt growing inside her chest as she watched the man who was still watching his feet. His long hair pulled back, one curl escaping from the leather strap and falling down in front of his face. Her hand ached to push it out of that sad face. She quickly looked away, cheeks burning, and started to cough again.  
“Here.” Squirrel was at her side with a bowl of soup that was still hot, smiling up at her proudly.  
“Can I have the bread?” he asked carefully.  
“Percival.”   
The man said warningly, and Guinevere glanced at him, offering a small smile because it somehow felt like these two had been over this before. It did not surprise her that Squirrel was after food, and she handed the boy the bread. Squirrel was happy to hand her the food now that the bread was promised to him and Guinevere reached out for it with shaking hands and as she took the bowl from Squirrel’s hands she started coughing again, the hot soup swaying dangerously in its bowl. Hands bigger than her own intervened now, taking the bowl from her with one hand while offering her water with the other.  
“Drink.”  
Guinevere was surprised when the weeping man - _Lancelot_ , her mind corrected again- sat down on the edge of the bed. She wasn’t the only one. Squirrel watched the man closely too.   
Guinevere obeyed him and as the water made its way down her throat, she realized her body had been craving it badly. The water was cold, making her shiver again, but it soothed her sore throat and calmed the cough until it disappeared. Guin could feel the man’s eyes on her and looked down as she finished the entire cup in one go.  
“More?” he asked, and she looked up to meet his eyes, which looked surprisingly kind. She nodded quickly as another cough started to rise, suppressing it hopelessly. The man nodded curtly as he took the cup from her, fingers brushing past hers. He got up, swiftly put the soup down and rushed from the room. Guinevere coughed and Squirrel was quickly at her side again, looking up at her with that worried little face. She wanted to take that worry away, so she decided to distract him.  
“Where are we?” she asked, shifting to make herself more comfortable.  
“I don’t know. It was dark, we rode until we found a village. To get help.”   
The boy shrugged, pouting as he sat down on a stool by the bed.  
“A village?” Guinevere asked, a heavy realization slowly settling over her as she took in her surroundings. Staring at the table in front of her, filled with vials and instruments.   
Instruments that were not used by Fey healers.  
“How long have I been out?” she asked, sitting up, eyeing the instruments suspiciously.  
The boy watched her closely, worry returning.  
“Two days.”  
“Two days...” Guinevere breathed, dizzy as her chest started to heave with slow building panic.   
She moved her legs, which finally responded, over the edge of the bed, pushing the blanket back to see that she was not wearing her own clothes. Her trousers were exchanged for a long white nightgown. She frowned and looked back at the table and the instruments, heart beating fast.  
“What are you doing?” Squirrel asked as he got up from his stool, watching her intently.  
“Two days…” Guinevere breathed again, slipping off the bed and onto her feet. She wanted to scream and swear and sit back down all at the same time as soon as her feet made contact with the floor, but she was too disorientated to find her way back. She almost tripped over the nightgown, which was long and itchy and she felt very unlike herself without her own clothes and with all these human things surrounding her. She missed the open air and woods and the earth. She was surrounded by strangeness.  
 _“What are you doing?!”  
_ Lancelot was back, spilling water over the floor as he noticed Guinevere was on her feet, quick to put the cup down and rush toward her. She wanted to tell him to back up, she wanted to back away from him because she was too scared to be touched by anyone ever again after what had happened, but her body disagreed. Her body wanted to stop working and crash down. Lancelot seemed to have noticed this and caught her just before her knees could hit the ground. She held onto his arms, fingertips digging into his arms as she tried to make sense of why she was up in the first place.  
“Humans.” She mumbled. “You took me to _humans_?”  
“Calm down.” Lancelot pulled her up and moved her back to the bed, but his words made her anything _but_ calm and she tried to pull back.  
“You took me to a manblood healer?!” she found his face now, despite her dizziness, and spat the words at him accusingly.  
“You need to calm down, _now_.” He hissed warningly, glancing over his shoulder at the door behind him. Guinevere, however, did _not_ calm down. Not after what those manbloods had done to her just days ago. Humans killed Fey, it was that simple.  
“Do you have _any_ idea what they’ll do when they find out what we are?!”  
She wanted to escape from his grip, even if it meant she’d fall down to the floor, but strong hands got a hold of her shoulders and fingertips pressed down there making her look at him.  
“I need you…” he started in an urgent whisper “…to calm down. _Right now_.”   
The man himself seemed eerily calm and controlled, like a lake. But deep waters often had a wildness to hide and Guinever was unsure he understood what it truly meant to be Fey in this world. She looked into his eyes and this calmed her down enough to not raise her voice again but not enough to stop her from talking entirely.   
Anger -which had been easy and strong inside of her- made way for fear, which was a lot harder to deal with. He sat her down on the edge of the bed, but now Guinevere couldn’t let go of those arms, couldn’t look away from those eyes. Because he may need her to calm down, but _she needed him_ to keep them safe. She needed him to understand what the world was like to their kind.  
“They’ll kill us…it’s not safe…he’s not safe here.”  
Guinevere was losing it, she could feel this, but there was no easy way of stopping it now that it had started. Sanity slipping from her like sand between fingers.   
“They don’t know.”   
The weeping man, or Lancelot, or whatever she was supposed to call him now, was not fazed by her sudden mood swing. Instead, he seemed to follow right along with it, never breaking eye contact.  
“It’s alright. They don’t know.”  
“If they find out…they will…if they…Squirrel…not safe…”   
Her fingertips dug into his robes as if she could hold on to her sanity that way. The only thing keeping her from losing her mind were his hands, holding onto her arms just as intently. Her eyes filled with tears now as her chest heaved in panic, it was hard to breathe because she was in a human house, in a human village, surrounded by the enemy with no way to defend herself because they took that away from her with violence.  
She kept repeating the words, unable to string them together to make a full sentence. He did not look away. He did not let go.  
“They won’t.” he repeated every time she questioned him, with unwavering patience.   
“They’ll kill us. They’ll take him.”   
“They won’t.” he said again, firmly this time, like a promise.  
Guinevere’s grip on him only weakened because she grew tired, which made the fear subside slightly as well. Lancelot did not speak as his fingertips relaxed and his hands slipped from her arms, he only watched her closely, as if wanting to make sure it was alright to let her go, as if he was making sure she’d be able to keep herself together without his help. Guinevere nodded absentmindedly in return and the man turned and moved away from her.  
“She’s right…” She heard Squirrel. “What if they find out?”  
“Not now.” The man said sternly.  
“But…”  
“ _I said_ , not now.” Lancelot did not have to raise his voice, one look was enough for the boy to swallow his question.  
“Here.”  
Guinevere looked up, feeling completely drained, to see him offer her another cup of water. She looked at it for a long time, confused. The man did not move, waiting with that unlikely patience until she finally took the cup from his hand in both of hers.  
“Drink.” He said again, and Guinevere did. The water calmed her down, as did the sudden wave of exhaustion that hit her. She only now noticed how her feet hurt and although she had been fighting hard to keep herself from crying, a stubborn tear escaped from the corner of her eye.  
“I want to go.” She mumbled, holding the empty cup in both of her hands.  
“No.”  
“I want to go.” She repeated, louder this time. Looking up at the man defiantly.  
“I said no.” he said matter-of-factly.   
He wasn’t unkind, his eyes might’ve even seemed sympathetic. But his answer bothered Guinevere, nonetheless.  
“You agreed on the terms of this arrangement. _I_ decide when we move.” Guinevere said, some of her old self resurfacing now.   
The man seemed to notice the change in her as well, raising his brows, swiftly showing emotion in that handsome face but it turned blank just as quickly. He glanced at the boy, who was watching the both of them closely, and leaned in closer now.  
“The agreement was to keep the boy safe. If we move now, this is impossible.” He hissed quietly.  
“Is it impossible to keep _him_ safe or is it impossible to keep _me_ safe? Because I’m willing to take the risk.” She coughed again, ribs protesting violently.   
Lancelot shook his head and looked away and Guinevere could tell he was as frustrated with her as she was with him. She stared at him as if she could win the argument with a simple look. He moved suddenly, pulling his hood up and over his head.  
“Rest. I’ll get you more water.” Lancelot said, and as Guinevere watched him leave the room, she hated that he might be the one that was right this time.

  
  


***  
  
  
The woman was impossible.

Lancelot calmed himself down by running his hand along the long dark neck of Goliath, who had been patiently waiting for him in the snow-covered garden.   
“It’s like she _wants_ to get herself killed.” Lancelot mumbled to his companion. The horse nickered as if it agreed, and Lancelot ran his hand up and to its forehead, shifting to stand in front of his best friend. There were few things Lancelot was more grateful for than this magnificent animal, and the man felt himself smirk slightly as the horse pressed his nose to his cheek.  
“How have you been, my friend?” Lancelot’s husky voice seemed to calm the animal down as it stared at him intently. Small white flakes came down on its black hair and Lancelot’s gaze turned upward as it began to snow.  
“Looks like I’ve gotten us in quite a mess this time…” the man mused absentmindedly, hand brushing along the Goliath’s neck. The horse answered him again, as if he understood the words perfectly, snorting loudly.   
“I know.” Lancelot looked at the animal again, its kind eyes staring back at him. “I’m sorry.”  
The horse neighed and pressed his nose against Lancelot’s head again, the man frowned and leaned in for a moment, allowing himself one unguarded moment. He was tired, despite having slept the entire night, his wounds still not entirely healed and the fight from days before had not helped in that department either. He was tired and troubled for so many reasons he could hardly make out which one was worse. Guarding Guinevere and taking care of Percival had distracted him enough to push these troubles away but Lancelot knew he was merely running from something he could not outrun forever. He had been running for a long time and he had grown tired. Very tired.  
The dream of that night had brought back memories that grief over losing Father Carden had made him forget, showing the man’s true face, which was so easy to forget. Why was it so easy to forget? Lancelot swallowed back the lump in his throat and raised his head, clearing his throat as he looked from the small house back to his horse.  
“I failed him, Goliath.”  
Lancelot said the words and had expected to feel differently. Heavier. Darker. More afraid. But there was only sadness. The horse did not reply now, it just blinked at him as snowflakes got caught in its long black lashes.  
“I will surely go to hell now…” Lancelot gave in to that feeling, like he had the night he saved Percival from a fate worse than death. He knew what Wicklow had implied when he asked about the boy’s ability to _smell out their kind_. The words had ignited something in Lancelot that had been smoldering ever since, growing stronger with each memory now shed in different light and each act of kindness of the ones that were supposed to be his enemy. Something inside of him was shifting, and although it hurt, it brought him an odd sense of calm. Maybe he deserved hell, maybe it was where he had always belonged, or maybe…just maybe, it wasn’t all that Father Carden had made it out to be.

***  
  
 _Guinevere watched her mother get ready for the ceremony. Long black hair being brushed by careful hands, forest flowers placed carefully along the intricate pattern of braids and curls. Guinevere was sure her mother was the most beautiful woman that had ever lived, and her father would always tell her so. She smiled, resting her chin in her hands as she watched in admiration.  
“Mother, why do I have to wear a dress?”  
_ _Guinevere’s mother smiled, watching her daughter in the reflection of the mirror before her.  
_ _“You don’t_ have to _do anything, my heart. But I thought you liked the dress Mirren made you?”  
_ _“Well, I do. But I can’t fight well in it.”  
_ _Guinevere’s mother laughed and this made the girl pout, she did not like being laughed at. She watched as her mother turned in her seat and her mother’s maid put a delicate crown on her mother’s head.  
_ _“I hardly think you’ll have to fight during a wedding ceremony, Guinevere.”  
_ _Guinevere shot up now, impatient and frustrated with her mother’s ignorance. She shook her head, her own hair pulled back in an updo much like her mother’s.  
_ _“But Eddard told Pippin that I was too small to master the skills needed for the Byrnwiga ceremony and I…” Guinevere stopped as her mother chuckled and she crossed her arms over her chest.  
_ _“What?” she grumbled, watching as a sparkling blue cape was secured to her mother’s shoulders.  
_ _“Eddard says these things because he knows you’ve already mastered all skills needed for the ceremony. You are your father’s daughter,_ my _daughter. You’re the product of generations of our strongest warriors, Guinevere, you’ve been born ready. The only skill you need to master is that of setting aside your pride.”  
_ _“But mother…”  
_ _“Come here, my daughter.” Guinevere’s mother smiled and she couldn’t resist that smile. The girl moved to her mother, who pulled her up on her lap. Her hands running along the hair in Guinevere’s face, ever so gently pushing it back behind her ear. This soothed Guinevere’s frustrated mind, forgetting about the bullying of her friends, and she smiled now too.  
_ _“There is no need to fear those boys. There is no need to worry about others. You were born a daughter of water, never forget that.”  
_ _“Alright, mother.” Guinevere smiled now, running little fingers along her mother’s hand in her lap, playing with the ring on her finger which caught the light just right.  
_ _“One day you’ll wear it. Like my mother before me.”  
_ _Guinevere frowned and looked up at her mother, confused why she would ever want to wear her mother’s ring when it belonged with her. Her mother smiled again, her dark blue eyes holding secrets like the night sky.  
_ _“It’ll be given to you on a ceremony much like the one for your brother today.”  
_ _Guinevere wrinkled her nose and shook her head quickly. She knew her brother Rowan was to be married on this day, and she had not liked how love had made him softer.  
_ _“I won’t fall in love, mother. I am a warrior. No man will win my heart, I will remain undefeated!” Guinevere proclaimed proudly. The truth was Guinevere had no true sense of what romantic love was, she had merely heard her brothers speak of Rowan losing his heart. Guinevere did not like losing anything and losing ones heart sounded like serious defeat.  
_ _“Well my sweet, Wæter legend has it that once every generation a warrior finds their mate in battle and together they will remain undefeated,_ forever _._ _Your brother believes he’s found this, wouldn’t you still think he’s the greatest warrior our tribe has ever seen?”_   
_Guinevere pondered this for a moment, the meaning of love and legend taking on a different shape in her mind, but she was still not convinced.  
_ _“Maybe he’s wrong.”  
_ _“Maybe he is.” Guinevere’s mother smiled again and looked down at her ring. “I hope you won’t be.”_

Guinevere was awakened by the sound of a door opening and cold air coming in. Squirrel was asleep by the window, curled up in a huge blanket, cheeks puffy and red from the comfort of warmth. The figure entering the room was a familiar one, black hood covered in specks of white, boots covered in snow. Guinevere’s hand absentmindedly reached for her chest, the warm and peaceful emotion of her dream still present in her body, making her feel calm. But she did not find what she was looking for there. There was no necklace, and no ring. Just bandages and that itchy nightgown. Her heart stopped and she wanted to sit up, to get out of this bed and search the room for the holy talisman that was her mother’s ring, but the last time she had gotten up was still fresh in her mind and she couldn’t bring herself to wake the boy by getting out of bed, so she sat in silence trying to remember when she had last seen it.  
“What’s wrong?”  
Guinevere looked up to find Lancelot next to the bed, not only pushing down his hood but taking off his cloak altogether, putting it up to dry as snow melted quickly in the room’s warmth, like the expression on his face. For the Red Paladin’s most deadly warrior the man was peculiarly perceptive.  
“My ring…”  
The man sat down slowly, looking at her intently as Guinevere’s hand still rested on her chest, which felt uncomfortably bare now. His cheeks and nose were red from the cold and he rubbed his hands together to warm them. She looked away and frowned, still fighting to remember when she had last felt the ring around her neck. Guinevere looked up when she saw something glisten in the corner of her eye.   
He did not speak as his hand moved up and offered her the golden band. Guinevere’s heart skipped a beat for a reason she could not quite explain as she reached out, her finger running along the decorated surface of the ring. Fingertips brushed along the man’s palm accidentally and his hand closed like a flower until his own fingertips touched her skin, catching her fingers before she felt her cheeks flush. Guinevere pulled the ring from the hand. She swallowed and looked down again, as if not looking at him could prevent him from seeing the red in her face.  
“I found it when I returned to the camp. I thought you would want it back.”  
“Thank you.” Guinevere’s voice betrayed the storm inside of her.  
There was a long silence, which was not uncomfortable. On the contrary, silence was exactly what was needed to come to her senses. She could ask him about the snow, talk about how it must be cold outside, but somehow Guinevere did not feel pressure to act any different than she wanted to in this very moment. So, she enjoyed the silence while he took out his sword and started cleaning it quietly. The weapon was beautiful, and somehow the mundane task being performed next to her made her feel at home. They sat like that, in unlikely peace, until she found something worth saying.  
“Why did you go back?”   
He looked up from the blade casually, but the slight twitch in his jaw and the raised brow told her she was onto something. She could _feel_ it within him.  
“Percival asked me to help you.”   
A clever diversion, but Guinevere wasn’t easily sidetracked, and she shook her head.   
“Why did you go back?” she asked again.   
The question held a thousand other questions, but Guinevere had to start somewhere. She had to start to figure all of this out at least somewhere. This felt like the right place, and by the look on the man’s face she was right. He frowned, deeper than she had seen him do before, but not in anger. The man seemed as confused as she was, and her heart ached with inexplicable empathy. He was silent but Guinevere could sense this wasn’t because he did not want to answer her, he was trying to find the words and she let him. She watched him as he put his weapon aside, taking a deep breath, and noticed he was trembling. Lancelot finally looked up and his face looked like that of a different man. Where his face was usually a handsome and stoic mask, like a marble statue, it was now _alive_.  
“I think…” the man started, obviously struggling. “…I needed absolution.” 

***

  
“I think…”   
The hateful and conditioned part of Lancelot’s mind told him to stop speaking right there and then, to not think or feel or want. But he couldn’t do it anymore, he didn’t want to. This weight was too much to carry alone.  
“…I needed absolution.”  
As soon as he said the words, he realized it was something he had not gotten, and never would. Not from Father Carden, not anymore. He swallowed at the thought and his throat was very dry.  
“From what?” Guinevere’s voice pulled him from his thoughts, and he looked at her again to see the question came without verdict.  
“From the sins I have committed against my Brothers and Father. Against God.”   
Lancelot looked down, drawing in a shaky breath as the words had left him and with it a small piece of the weight on his shoulders.  
“Did you get it?”   
There was a hint of something in her voice that Lancelot could not quite figure out, so he looked back up to search for it in her face. There was an openness there that allowed his own feelings to surface violently, feelings of shame and pain and more unexpectedly… _resentment_.  
“I did not.”  
His eyes drifted from her face to the wall beyond, staring into the past as he tried to work through the emotions he had desperately tried to suppress for years now. They forced themselves upon him like they had for days now and Lancelot found himself trembling with the effort of overpowering them. His fists balled as he tried to keep it all in, he tried to resist that demon from crawling out of his skin. A demon that wasn’t allowed to be. _Something sinful_.  
“It was my mother’s.”  
Lancelot was temporarily distracted from the rising storm inside of him as she spoke. She had moved to sit on the edge of the bed, blanket draped over her shoulders. They had put her in a dress of sorts. It did not suit her wild nature, as if they tried to make her something she was not. Her face wasn’t sad, unlike her voice, but serene as she stared down at the ring still in her hand.   
Lancelot tried to delay himself from breaking by asking her a question instead. Anything that would silence the roaring inside of him.  
“What was she like?”  
Guinevere did not look away from the shimmering gold in her hand. She smiled, however, and the sight was so soft it calmed him down. Maybe this was good, maybe this was right, something whispered in his mind.   
“Fierce as a warrior, very kind as a mother.”  
Guinevere’s hand closed around the ring and she looked up now, meeting his gaze and Lancelot had been unprepared for the look in her eyes and the question that came with it. She smiled still -at _him_ now- like they had never been on opposite sides of a war. She smiled at him the way she would smile at Percival.  
“And yours?”  
Guinevere’s eyes were warm and inviting and the question so sincere Lancelot wished he had an answer. He looked down at his hands, knuckles turning white. Part of him wanted to run, but a bigger part of him was too tired to do so.   
“I don’t remember.” He mumbled and this truth broke something inside of him he did not know was still capable of breaking. He shifted restlessly on the stool, rubbing his hands on his knees to get the tension out of them but the task seemed impossible.  
“How long have you been with the Red Paladins?”   
Guinevere’s voice was soft and careful, _compassion_ , Lancelot had learned. He couldn’t look up, so he stared down at his hands which balled back into fists and the more he resisted _feeling_ things the more tension build up in his body, it was growing unbearable.  
“I don’t remember.”  
He looked up to anchor himself with help of her face as the world started spinning again. Something settled in her eyes, like she had found an answer to whatever she was looking for and Lancelot’s heart skipped a beat because he could not place that emotion. Why did he search her face waiting for a reaction like he had with Father Carden? Always careful, always waiting for wrath or punishment merely for showing his emotions.   
But Guinevere did not give him the cruel release of retaliation, and so Lancelot was confused and scared of the unknown territory that seemed so vast and intimidating and _sinful_.  
“All that time…” she started, and her voice had a calming effect on him, maybe because it meant that all Lancelot had to do was listen.  
“Why…” Guinevere started but seemed to reconsider, looking up at him and Lancelot was quick to look away. Readying himself for whatever judgement would come his way.  
“How did you survive?”   
The question was so unexpected Lancelot frowned at its meaning. Once again, he had to look at the woman to understand where it was coming from. Her face was like encouragement, sad and compassionate and closer than it had been seconds ago.   
Lancelot struggled to answer the question as the realization dawned on him that it had been exactly what he had been doing. This struck him hard and uncomfortable and the demon inside of him rattled its cage while trained voices snuck up on Lancelot telling him to stop this sinful behavior before it was too late.   
“I don’t know.”   
The words came out like they belonged to a stranger.   
“I don’t…” Lancelot’s voice broke and so did the lock on his cage.   
He looked up at the woman, desperate for help, for anything to hold onto. His hands ached to hold onto something too, but they were balled into fists that now turned painful.   
“It’s alright…” she said quickly, her voice hushed like she spoke to a scared animal, and in a way Lancelot supposed that was true. She moved closer and swallowed, Lancelot kept his gaze fixed upon her as she seemed to search for words.  
“At the camp…” she started again, and Lancelot looked at her in misery, dark eyes holding him in place, calling to that demon soothingly. Calling to _him_ soothingly.  
“…that man mentioned someone dying and you…you were upset.”   
She frowned and shook her head, disagreeing with herself as she put her hand to her chest.   
“No…heartbroken.”   
The woman spoke as if he remembered the actual feeling, a feeling that had not been hers. How did she know this? What else did she hear? How could she know how he felt about the death of his guardian? It was his turn to search her face now, eyes scanning hers, but Guinevere wasn’t finished talking.   
“Who’s Father Carden?”  
Lancelot got up so fast the stool he had been sitting on almost fell, he caught it before the sound of it hitting the floor could wake up the boy sleeping in the very same room. He moved slow and intently as he put it back and his eyes were drawn to the sleeping boy. The boy he saved to prevent him from becoming the very thing Lancelot was today. The boy that had started the painful shift in Lancelot that was now tearing him apart.   
“I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to...”  
Her apology surprised him and only strengthened the voice inside his head that told him to give in, the voice that told him to not carry this weight alone. The voice that told him that he was _safe_.   
“Father Carden was…” Lancelot tried to find the one word that would describe this man but he was unable to, so he continued, unable to speak his name again.   
“He spared me from the fire and took me in… He gave me a home. Protected me from evil. Gave me a purpose and training and scripture. He _saved_ me.”   
The words flooded out of him now like water. _No_ , like blood from a wound that needed to be cleansed. His voice was a shaking mess, and the words came fast and raw. He started with what he was supposed to say, what he was supposed to _feel_ but the words felt like lies he no longer believed.  
“He _made_ me, into this _weapon._ ”   
For the first time he experienced disgust for The Weeping Monk, a loathing that was usually reserved for a demon named Lancelot.  
“What if that was all I ever was to him…”   
The words died on his lips as his voice broke at that insight. The first truth. It hurt. Lancelot turned around to look back at Guinevere, who was _listening_ so patiently. There was a darkness hidden deep in her eyes that disappeared as he looked at her.   
“You loved him.”   
It was a statement, not a question, and Lancelot knew it was true. What surprised him was that she did not judge him for it, her face unguarded even when he nodded reluctantly. His jaw clenched and Lancelot felt himself grinding his teeth as he moved to sit back down on the stool again in front of Guinevere. Standing was too hard. His head fell in his hands, restless fingers moving through his hair and to the back of his head where a reminder of his past was etched into his skull. Lancelot was suddenly nauseous with resentment, an unsettling sense of abuse creeping up on him as his entire faith started to shift again, sinking into place, threatening to take everything with it.  
“Lancelot, are you alright?”   
He wasn’t. He was _very_ far from alright. Lancelot had been bending for years but now he was breaking. 

  
  
***  
  
  
Guinevere could _feel_ his pain like it was her own and it was overwhelming.   
  
She watched him closely, taking in his every move because she could feel he was about to break. One hand trembled uncontrollably as he moved it through his hair, the other sat as a fist on his knee which was bouncing quickly, knuckles white.   
“Lancelot, are you alright?”  
When he looked up at her there were tears in his eyes and he seemed to be fighting so hard to keep them from falling. He moved his head restlessly, eyes wide as they seemed to search for something, _anything_ to hold on to. His face looked haunted and pale, as if all blood had been drained from it.   
“The things I’ve done…” His voice was sad and angry at the same time as he shook his head.  
Guinevere no longer sat on the bed, she found herself on her knees next to the man, her own pain forgotten at the sight of his.   
“For him. For God…”   
His eyes turned large with shock, lips parted in a gasp that did not come. Guinevere moved as if something else was guiding her and found her hand over his fist, squeezing it hard to make him look at her. He didn’t. Lancelot was losing himself, the sadness in his eyes turning into something darker. She understood this process, she knew where he was going. She had been there many times.  
“Lancelot, look at me.”  
The man shook his head and Guinevere’s other hand moved over his fist now too, she cursed inwardly at the bandages as only fingertips were able to touch his skin, which felt feverishly hot.   
“I have killed so many in His name.” He said darkly.  
“ _Look at me_.”   
One of her hands moved up, wanting to touch his face but he was quick to intercept her wrist, his strong hand closing around the raw skin there. He looked at her and his eyes were on fire, but Guinevere was not scared. If it was fire, he wanted, Guinevere would give it to him.   
She pushed through stubbornly, moving her hand to his face while he tried to stop her. The man tried to look away, in anger and pain and desperation but Guinevere followed his every move, forcing those eyes to look at her as her hand finally found his face.  
“Look at me.” She said with patient strength, doing exactly what he had done for her when she had lost herself to fear.   
The man struggled more, though half-heartedly, and she felt his fist relax under her other hand, her thumb rubbing the warm skin of his hand there until he finally looked at her. The Weeping Man was _crying_. Hot angry tears escaping from those eyes that looked haunted by what was done to him. This filled Guinevere with so much compassion there was no room left for doubt. He gasped for air, still fighting it, forcing himself to stay in control as Guinevere caressed his cheek intently.  
“It’s _alright_ to mourn him.” She said, her voice stronger than she had ever heard it herself.   
The words came from a place Guinevere did not know existed. A place where there was no pride or judgement, not even for the man that had killed so many of her kind.   
Lancelot’s hand moved from her wrist up to her hand and for a moment she was afraid he’d push it away, when he didn’t, she pressed on. Still caressing that cheek, holding onto his face as her eyes bored into his and the world around them disappeared.  
“There is _nothing_ wrong with you for loving him.”   
Relief seemed to wash over him as his hand clung to hers in a moment so intimate and raw Guinevere felt like it wasn’t real. Her entire being wanted to comfort him despite her own overwhelming emotions, she would deal with those later.  
“I...” The man spoke through gritted teeth, his head dropped as he gasped softly.  
“I h—” he tried again and pressed his lips together, struggling to speak and keep tears at bay all at the same time. The sight of it broke Guinevere’s heart.  
“I _hate_ him.” The words ripped from him like it was part of his soul and Guinevere pushed herself up on her knees, slipping her arms around him to keep all the pieces of him falling apart together when he could not do it himself. She held his trembling body so tight it hurt hers, but she couldn’t let go. She was trembling now too, rage building up inside of her, begging to be released. What they had done to this man was unforgivable, what they had done to her people was unforgivable, and she would bring them down, even if it would be the end of her.

***

“I _hate_ him.”

The words were as ugly and painful as the realization that tore him apart. He broke and all that Lancelot had believed to be true was spilling from the cracks of what was left of him. Warm arms moved around him, and the quick and steady beating of a heart against his own chest centered him slightly. His body mirrored hers instinctively and all on its own, as untaught arms slipped around her, his face finding refuge where her shoulder met her neck, and he was surrounded by that scent that calmed him down and drove him wild all at once and for a brief moment he felt _so_ _safe_. Her hair tickled his face and his breath was shaky from the cry that had been ripped from him, her skin was soft and warm against his nose and lips and…

Lancelot pulled himself from her so suddenly she almost fell back. He took in a sharp breath as all that he had been beaten into his body and mind for decades crashed over him again, walls rising so fast he couldn’t stop them. He swallowed back the tears and the lump in his throat and watched Guinevere suspiciously as she tried to move in again questioningly. He dropped his hands and his entire being was burning uncomfortably. He could still feel her arms around him and how his body longed for that feeling, aching at the absence of it.   
The voice of guilt started screaming at him, chastising him brutally and the demon recoiled back into its cage. He had betrayed his Father, betrayed his faith, betrayed his God…  
“Lancelot...”  
Lancelot got up and away from the Fey woman on the ground as if she really was the witch he was taught to believe she was. The stool hit the floor now and she looked up at him and frowned and he almost wanted to get on his knees next to her. _Almost_. His skin crawled at the thought of that.   
This _wasn’t_ him. He couldn’t hate Father Carden. He loved him. Like he loved God.   
What had she done to him? The man quickly shook his head as if he could rid himself of his thoughts that way, overwhelmed by so many emotions he suddenly shut down. He was still looking at her as she pressed her lips together and nodded slowly, like she understood something he didn’t. This angered him.  
“What’s wrong?”   
Percival’s sleepy voice intervened, and Lancelot shifted uncomfortably, his heart beating so fast it felt like it tried to beat its way out of his body. He wanted to run from the treacherous comfort of this room and the treacherous eyes of this woman that seemed to see right through him.  
“Go.” She said, her voice flat, as if she could read his mind.  
Lancelot bolted from the room, gasping for air until he found his way outside, still desperately trying to outrun himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not crying, *you're* crying! Ha...sorry about this one. It had to be done. Love you <3


	14. Run

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that took a while. Real life caught up with me -isn't that always the way?- but I am back and refuse to let real life win ;-)

13.  
  
_____  
  


_I was in the darkness, so darkness I became_

Guinevere sat on the floor and all her senses came back to her now that her entire being was no longer focused on one man. The floor was cold under her knees, the nightgown uncomfortable and her body was screaming angrily at her to rest while her mind raced with new information.   
“What did you do?” Squirrel asked, judgement apparent in his voice but he came to her aid, nonetheless. Guinevere looked up at the boy as he grabbed her arm and helped her up.  
“We talked.”   
Guinevere did not lie to the boy, who glared at her as she sat on the edge of the bed, exhausted and sad. It had been much easier when she could be angry with the man for what he had done, anger was simple and clear and _easy_. But the truth behind the Weeping Monk was heartbreaking and maybe the biggest assault to the Fey people yet. They had taken a boy -a _child_ \- and made him into a weapon to hunt down and kill his own kind. Guinevere’s heart thumped painfully as rage still grew inside of her. How many children had they taken? How many times had they tried until they had succeeded and made him into their perfect weapon? How many had even survived a life like that?   
“I told you he doesn’t like to talk about it.”   
Squirrel said as he moved back to the seat by the window, sulking all the way there. The boy obviously accused her of upsetting the man, protective like a little brother and Guinevere finally understood why.   
“I know.”   
She did know and she understood it, how could one talk about something so painful?  
The door opened and Guinevere’s heart skipped a hopeful beat. So hopeful she even smiled in slight relief at the anticipation of Lancelot returning to the room. But the man in the door opening was shorter, with much less hair and no tear shaped marks under beautiful eyes. The man was also very, _very_ human.   
The conversation with Lancelot and the very recent incident with the Red Paladins was still very fresh in her mind and this triggered an equal amount of fear and anger in Guinevere as she got to her feet. It hurt immensely still, but terror had a way of making a body do things it should not be able to. Her chest heaved with panicked breathing as she tried to keep herself calm.  
“Squirrel…” she demanded, gesturing for the boy to get behind her.  
The boy obeyed without question, rushing to her side and Guinevere pushed him behind her as she backed up slowly, wild eyes fixed upon the human before them.   
“You’re up…” the man said in a mixture of delight and confusion, eyeing her from top to bottom and back.  
“You shouldn’t be able to stand…” the man mumbled perplexed, more to himself than her.  
Guinevere could feel how Squirrel pushed something cold and hard into the hand behind her back and her fingers closed around it instinctively. It was the hilt of her sword, an old friend that rewarded her with newfound bravery, taunting the burns in her palm.  
“Who are you?” she demanded, her hand tightening around her weapon.   
She wondered if she would be able to use it, barely standing, leaning on Squirrel as she did.  
“Milady, it would be best if you would lay down.” The man started as he moved in closer.  
The sword was up in the air between them now and the man hastily stepped back, hands up.  
“Who. Are. You.”  
Guinevere cursed Lancelot for leaving them behind and in the same thought she cursed herself for becoming reliant on the help of someone else. She tried her best, but the weapon was shaking and before the man could answer her, her arm refused to stay up. The man immediately took a step forward and she lifted it again, hopelessly. She did not remember it being this heavy.  
“Easy, easy.” The man rushed. “I am a healer. I’ve helped you.”  
Guinevere glanced down at Squirrel, who nodded quickly to confirm this information. She looked back up and took in a shaky breath, examining the man closely. She wanted to lay down and cry.  
“You really should lay down, milady.”  
Guinevere took another step back as the healer took a step forward and both Squirrel and her bumped into the healer’s worktable, the vials there clinking.   
“Do you want me to find your husband? Would this make you feel more comfortable?”  
“My _husband_?”   
What kind of sick joke was this, the word alone made her nauseous and dizzy and she shook her head. Her husband was dead. Because she _left_ him to die.   
“I’m sure he isn’t far, _mother_.” Squirrel said in a voice so sweet and high it made Guinevere frown even before he mentioned the last word. She turned her head quickly and looked down at the boy and stopped herself just before she could ask him why he would call her…  
Someone took her sword, clumsily but successfully and when Guinevere looked back the man was closing in again, tossing her weapon aside and she backed up even more, bumping into the wood behind her uncomfortably.  
“Get Lancelot.” She cried out in pure terror as she turned to move away from the healer and Squirrel rushed off.  
“It’s alright milady, it’s alright. Calm down.”  
“Don’t!” Guinevere held her hand up. “Don’t tell me to calm down.”  
“You really shouldn’t…”   
Guinevere started to move around the bed now, backwards, bumping into furniture and tipping over a stool as she reached back to feel her way around. She needed to find her way back to that sword. Her eyes scanned the room frantically and the man wouldn’t stop talking although she could barely hear him.  
“I’m only here to help you, it’s alright. I just came to take a look at your wounds.”  
It took the man a while to get through, and he mostly did because Guinevere grew unbearably tired. She looked at him now, listening for the first time.  
“I’m not going to hurt you.”  
She looked around again, wondering what was taking Squirrel so long.   
“It’s alright, milady. I know you must be scared, it’s alright.”  
Nothing about this was alright to Guinevere. She was alone and in the hands of a human, who wanted to touch and care for wounds that were caused by _his_ kind because of what she was. What if he already knew what they were? What if he knew that she wasn’t human? Guinevere hated those questions, she refused to be ashamed of what she was, refused to hide it most of the time but she knew she had no choice now. She took a deep breath, trying to still the emotions that were raging through her.  
“That’s it. There you go.” The man said kindly, which made her trust him even less.  
“Sit down, now, love. It’ll be alright.”  
Guinevere sat down only because standing was no longer an option and noticed she was shaking. She watched the healer’s every move as he took the stool -Lancelot’s stool- and sat down in front of her. Guin’s entire being was screaming at her to run, but she no longer had the energy. She was left to this human and his care and although it felt derogatory, she knew she had no other choice but to give in.  
“Now, let me take a look at those hands hmm?”  
She struggled not to break down crying at every touch.

***  
  
Shame was heavy on Lancelot’s shoulders, making them hang, by the time he returned to the small cottage. The boy had come looking for him sooner, begging for help, but Lancelot had denied it, still reeling from the conversation with Guinevere. The woman could take care of herself, and if not…that’s what the healer was for wasn’t it? If she could’ve bewitched him into saying those hateful -no, _sinful_ \- things, she could surely handle the old human healer that was trying to help her.  
But then why did he feel relief? Why did he feel calmer returning to that room? Was she doing this to him still?  
Lancelot entered the room, and it was quiet. Outside night had fallen hours ago and it had started snowing again but in here it was warm. In here, he could breathe. Both Guinevere and Percival were asleep. Percival was by the window, covered by a blanket, a half-eaten apple still in his hand. Lancelot moved closer to take it from his short fingers and put it down next to him. He dragged his feet as he walked and turned to look at Guinevere who was laying on her side, her back turned on him, and felt something pull at his heartstrings. Something that resembled the guilt he had felt all afternoon, only it had been for someone else then.  
She looked small and fragile in the almost empty room, so very different from what he knew she was capable of. Lancelot slumped down in the window seat next to Percival, suddenly exhausted, and removed his hood. Trembling hands found their way to his tired face, rubbing worries from his eyes in vain. That feeling of guilt in his chest called to him again and he dragged his hands down his face and looked at Guinevere’s back, standing up as if a string pulled him in that direction.  
  
When he got closer his fingertips hovered over her shoulder, making shadows dance over her body in the candlelight. He lowered his hand but not to touch her, dropping it to his side as his eyes caught a glimpse of markings in her neck. A delicate pattern of dark markings, much like his own but smaller and more intricate, and he realized they resembled the way the water had moved around and slithered up her fingertips. The markings looked like magic all on their own and ran from the nape of her neck to dance down her spine and disappeared into the fabric of her clothes. Something that in the past would’ve meant something dark and useful to him, betraying her true heritage, now sent a warm shiver up his spine. It felt _good_ to recognize something he had always considered unnatural and see it on someone else, it made him feel less alone. Something he had not experienced with the Red Paladins, something she couldn’t be _making_ him feel because she was asleep. And with that thought he turned to join Percival by the window, deciding he would give her another chance tomorrow.

***  
  
Guinevere had stared at the wood of the wall for so long her mind was seeing patterns in it by now, making up faces in the knots. The feeling of tired emptiness had returned, after fear and panic had tired her out enough to seem calm. She had been laying like this since the healer left. On her side, staring at the wall, hoping to fall asleep because she wouldn’t have to feel things anymore. Things like the burn on her chest, the bruises on her ribs or the blisters under her feet. Things like being homesick for a place that no longer existed.  
She winced as the door opened, afraid it was the human again. The human that had changed bandages and touched her skin until it got unbearable and Guinevere made him stop.   
There was no sound, no voice to wake her up, only the cold air that came in with the visitor that moved slowly around the room. She could hear steps and although she did not turn to see who had entered the room, she knew it was _him_. Weeping Monk, weeping man, _Lancelot_. She could feel it like she had back at the Paladin camp, following that feeling to the right place, finding him impossibly quickly in that sea of tents. The same feeling she had during their first conversation, when she knew she should hate the Weeping Monk but felt like she recognized something in him that begged to be noticed. She now realized she had recognized her own kind, felt that he had not been human. Sympathy forced itself upon her but she did not welcome it, instead she pushed it away and stared at the wall again. He had chosen not to come when she needed him. He had brought her to humans after what happened. He was the Weeping Monk.  
She listened as he moved in closer and she could see the shadows he cast on the floor and wall, a hand reaching out and Guinevere caught herself wanting to feel his touch, she ached for it in a way that was completely foreign to her but she fought the urge to turn around, stubborn and proud and _scared_. Lancelot’s touch never came, there were no fingertips on her shoulders, only their shadows touched, and she envied them and hated herself for wanting him. 

_I am a warrior. No man will win my heart, I will remain undefeated._

  
***  
  
Lancelot woke -too soon- to sounds that did not belong to the night. He shot up and his neck and back hurt from the awkward position he had been in. This was soon forgotten as he saw the faint glow of fire by the edge of the village. Fire that moved, slow but steady, fire that belonged to torches. His eyes shot up to the ceiling as he heard stumbling and voices and all of his senses told him something was very wrong. Lancelot reached out to the boy next to him, shaking his skinny shoulder.  
“Percival, wake up.”  
“What is it?” the boy grumbled sleepily.  
“Get up.”  
“What?” Percival opened his eyes moodily.  
“Gather your things. Take what you can.”  
Percival’s eyes grew big and round and he sat up so quickly Lancelot was painfully aware how used to danger this child was.  
“Are they here?” he asked quietly, but his whispers did not hide the fear in his voice.  
Lancelot put his finger to his lips and turned, getting up and to the window swiftly. The torches were heading their way and he rushed to blow out the candles in the room to hide them from sight.  
“They’re close.” He admitted.  
The boy nodded, he did not speak, and like a true knight he started preparing. Gathering their weapons, grabbing whatever medicine was used on Guinevere and expertly draping the blanket around his body like a cape. Lancelot had to admit he continued to be impressed by this young creature. He took his own cape and pulled his hood over his head.  
“Is Goliath still in the garden?” Lancelot asked the boy as he himself moved up to Guinevere.  
“Yes, sir.”  
Lancelot’s hand was careful as it reached out fully this time, reaching its destination and ever so gently pulled at Guinevere’s shoulder. She felt warm even through the blanket, a fire that spread through his fingertips and up his arm.  
“Guinevere, wake up…” he whispered, leaning in because it was very important they made as few sounds as possible.  
She turned and faced him in confusion, deep sleep slowly fading from her eyes as she looked up at him questioningly. Her face slowly turned annoyed and Lancelot was quick to explain. It seemed like tomorrow had come a lot sooner than he had anticipated, and he had promised to give her another chance. In the face of danger this felt easier than anything else he had done maybe ever in his life.  
“You were right. We need to go.”  
Guinevere moved quickly, startled, and Lancelot helped her immediately, movements driven by an instinct he did not know he had.  
“What?”  
“Ssh..” he warned, looking at the door now as he heard footsteps in the hall.  
Guinevere’s legs were already over the edge of the bed and as she stood up Lancelot was quick to pull the blanket along and over her shoulders.  
“Can you move?”  
“I’m fine.”  
He knew that was a lie, but he did not fight her on it. Percival rushed to their sides, handing Guinevere the belt with her sword, helping her put it on. Lancelot wasn’t convinced Guinevere actually was able to move and slipped his own arm around her waist and hers around his neck, spreading the fire that had started in his hand. When she did not protest, he started for the door but stopped halfway as its handle moved.  
“Get behind me.” Lancelot said to Percival.  
The door opened and the healer rushed in, face red and sweaty and eyes scared.  
“You can’t leave!” he yelled.  
Lancelot felt how Guinevere’s hand grabbed the fabric of his robes that covered his shoulder. His chest heaved with angry breaths.  
“You betrayed us.” Lancelot stated darkly.  
“I had no choice! I had no choice, they would murder—”  
Lancelot had no patience to listen to the man and moved to put Guinevere to the edge of the bed, slowly pulling his sword from its scabbard as he approached the man, shaking his head while clicking his tongue.  
“No…” he corrected. “ _I_ have no choice.”  
“Please, sir…” the healer backed up and Lancelot lifted his sword until the tip reached the man’s neck. He took a step forward, forcing the man to move until his back was against the wall.  
“What did you tell them?” Lancelot’s voice was cold, like ice. The Weeping Monk’s voice.  
“They were looking for you…three Fey…a man in a black hood…”  
“Guin, Squirrel, get to the door.” Lancelot pointed at the pair and then at the door, all the while keeping the tip of his sword pressed firmly against the man’s throat. He heard them shuffle behind him, he also heard the familiar sounds of a Red Paladin raid closing in on them.  
“You left me no choice…”   
For an instant Lancelot considered creating a diversion by making the man lie about their direction. He quickly decided against it, knowing his brothers would now be sure they were on the right track. So, killing the man really was his only choice if they were to make it out alive. And he _wanted to make it out alive_ , against all odds, he really wanted to. He wanted _them_ to. Then why was he hesitating? Why was killing a human any different from what he had done for years now?   
“Go get the horse.” He heard her voice quietly and before he could react to it, she rushed up to the man and slit his throat with her dagger. Quick and efficient and _easy_. Lancelot was still frozen in place when he looked at her, lowering his sword. He had hesitated and she had solved their problem for them. She looked back at him as if she understood exactly what his struggles had been, leaning against the wall, blood covering the bandages on her hands, turning them from white to red. Guinevere did not look fazed, not even when the man’s dead weight hit the floor with a nauseating thud. She looked _determined_ , a determination that set Lancelot in motion.  
“Now can we go?” there was a hint of dark humor in her plea and Lancelot nodded immediately.  
“Of course.” He breathed.  
He stepped closer and so did she, never breaking eye contact until they had to. Her arm around his neck, his arm around her waist, rushing to Percival waiting outside with his horse.

***  
  
Guinevere was not proud of killing the man so mercilessly, but she had not seen any other way to get out of this mess. The truth was it made her feel almost nothing, and although this scared her, there was not much time to think about it.  
Squirrel was outside with Goliath and the sight of them was a relief, knowing the possibility of freedom was close. Lancelot was surprisingly careful as he navigated them down the hall and outside into the night. Cold snow touched her feet and Guinevere looked down, seeing drops of blood drip from her hands into the white icy substance.  
Suddenly they heard a shriek coming from within the cottage followed by the gut-wrenching crying of a woman and Guinevere winced. As she did, Lancelot’s body reacted too, holding on to her tighter, and Guinevere suddenly felt unworthy of this small kindness.  
“What happened?” Squirrel asked quickly, handing Lancelot the reins of his horse.  
Where Guinevere had felt nothing when actually taking the man’s life, she was now overwhelmed with regret. Lancelot’s arm moved from her waist to ready his horse and she was suddenly dizzy with the realization that she had taken someone’s family. She had to reach out and hold onto the man’s arm, a desperate fist grabbing the fabric of his robes there.  
“There’s someone else in the house?” she asked in horror.  
Lancelot looked at her questioningly from his hood, his eyes searching her face as he nodded, once.   
Guinevere glanced back at the cottage and another cry cut through the night and right through her heart.  
“We need to move.” Lancelot said, glancing back too, most likely to make sure the cause of the screams didn’t follow them outside just yet. Guinevere closed her eyes tightly, fighting that nauseating feeling as Squirrel started to pull at her, putting her cloak around her shoulders even over the blanket that was already there. Had they kept it all this time?  
She felt a warm hand over her fist and her hand was peeled from Lancelot’s arm and guided to his horse instead, so she wouldn’t fall over. Guinevere watched as Lancelot helped the child on the horse first and then turned to face her awkwardly. He looked at her and she knew what those eyes were asking, he nodded once, almost reassuringly and she nodded back. She was lying to keep both of them going, because how could they not? Guinevere looked back one more time and the woman was still wailing. Lancelot got on his horse and looked down at her.  
“Don’t.” Lancelot ordered with the slightest shake of his head and held out his arm.   
Guinevere took it and braced herself for pain as the man pulled her up and in between himself and the boy. The horse was in motion with a simple click of the tongue.   
It started snowing again, this was good. Snow would cover their tracks, Guinevere told herself as she pulled Squirrel closer to keep both of them warm. Painfully aware of her blood covered hands, she tried to hide them in the fabric of her cloak.  
“Are you okay?” she whispered to the boy and when the boy nodded, she nodded too, trying to convince herself she was too.  
“Hold on.”  
Guinevere’s heart skipped a beat as warm breath, and a husky voice were close to her ear and Lancelot leaned in. She knew he was doing it so they could go faster, she knew she should brace herself for this, she knew this, but her body wouldn’t listen. Heart racing as his chest pressed flush against her back, very aware of the arms that reached around her and forward, strong hands holding reins. She felt safer with him near and she hated herself for it.  
“Will they find us?” she blurted out, her voice betraying the fear she felt but tried to hide.  
There was a long silence as Lancelot seemed to focus on the road ahead, which wasn’t really a road but an intricate route through trees and bushes. Both horse and master worked hard to maneuver their way through all of it while still maintaining speed. It was very uncomfortable to say the least.   
“Will they?” Squirrel now chimed in, folded into the blankets and fabric of Guin’s cloak.  
Guinevere noticed how Lancelot’s hands tightened around the reins, knuckles again turning white with an anger that was put away so deep it was just these small gestures that showed any of the emotion at all.   
“Not without my help.”   
He answered and his voice was strained. Something in Guinevere told her it wasn’t just with the effort of riding. She was surprised to find her hand over his arm, squeezing gently in a reassuring gesture even though she was unsure of exactly what she was trying to say or do. She felt his head drop for the shortest of moments, warm breath even closer to her skin, making the hairs on the back of her neck rise in one swift motion, but before she could wander if she was imagining it the moment was gone. All focus back on outrunning certain death for the three of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Many. Feelings. For me at least :) let me know what you guys think! I promise I will update sooner next time...in fact..already working on the next chapter ;-)


	15. Talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays to those celebrating, and happy normal days to those who are not, I hope you are all in good health :) here's a long update which I think you might like :) thank you so much for reading, and for your patience when it takes me a little longer to update ;-)

14.  
  
_____  
  


_wherever you stray, I follow_

“I’m tired.”  
The boy voiced exactly how all of them felt. Goliath had been running for as long as he could but carrying three had taken its toll on the horse and the animal had slowed down now that immediate danger seemed far enough away for them to make it through the night.   
“Then sleep.” Lancelot answered, voice low because he was unsure if Guinevere was still even awake. Her head bobbed awkwardly to the side, and he could feel how her breath was slow and even, her back rising and falling against his chest and although she was close Lancelot did not feel uncomfortable. He was surprised that he was actually _calm_. Much calmer now that the prying human was dead, and they were out of that village. Much calmer surrounded by the quiet of a forest covered in fresh snow.   
“I can’t. I’m cold.”   
Lancelot frowned and looked around but there was no cover from the snow, the ground hidden by a blanket of icy white.   
“Come here.” Guinevere’s sleepy voice interfered and the sound of it, so unguarded and soft, made the corner of his mouth pull up in a mixture of contentment and relief. She had been unresponsive for most of the night and Lancelot had to admit this had worried him because it reminded him too much of the way she had been a few nights ago. She barely moved, clumsily reaching for the boy which told him she was still half asleep. Squirrel obliged happily, snuggling into the woman and disappearing out of sight, face safely hidden under blanket and cloak and he could hear the soft giggle of the boy and feel something similar in return coming from the woman as her back now fully relaxed back into his chest. She pulled the hood of her own cloak up further, hiding her own face in it and he could feel her shift slightly. There was another giggle from the boy.  
“Stop it.” He said but there was a playfulness in his voice. “That tickles.”   
Another pull at the corner where his lips met and the tightness in his brow faded as his face relaxed.  
“Ssh, sleep.” Guinevere responded, her voice muffled by the blanket.  
She shifted again, even closer now and everything in Lancelot’s being was awfully aware of where their bodies met. Chest, hips, thighs. It was the main thing keeping him warm, which he allowed in a practical sense, but also the main thing that kept his mind off the grief and shame and pain he had felt for days now. This, was harder to allow but also impossible to fight as her head fell again, to his chest this time. Her scent was everywhere, mixed with that of blood and fear which made him feel strangely protective over the creature in his arms. Her hood brushed along his chin and his arms subconsciously moved closer around both her and the boy now. The boy shifted once more and hummed contently.  
“Better?” Guinevere mumbled.   
_Much better_ , Lancelot’s mind answered, and this caught him off guard, cheeks immediately flushed. He hoped she was too far gone to feel the beating of the heart in his chest as he told himself this was just the rush of having survived another night on the run.

***  
  
Sleep was restless even with the boy safely in her arms and the warmth of another being behind her. Darkness filled with shrieks and screams and the face of the healer when he knew he was dying, and every time she was about to get lost in that nightmare _something_ calmed her down. A tingle at the back of her neck, felt even in the depth of sleep. She tried to listen to it, wake up and obey the question pulling at her intuition but she was too tired.   
Guinevere finally woke when something bumped into her head. She was startled and could feel the shock travel from her to Lancelot behind her, his body suddenly tense against hers. This awoke the boy as well and the three of them sat upright.  
“What is it?” Guinevere asked quickly, her entire body suddenly awake. It hurt.   
“What’s wrong?” Squirrel asked.  
“Nothing.” Lancelot’s voice was raspy and unclear, and Guinevere realized it sounded _sleepy_. She moved to sit up more, which made Squirrel grumble.  
“Are you alright?”   
She looked back at the man, who did not look alright. He looked _exhausted_. The marks under his eyes even darker with fatigue and his lips tinted with a hint of blue. She was sure that the thump on her head had been him falling asleep.  
“I’m fine.” He answered, looking ahead instead of at her.  
“Stop the horse.”  
“What?” both man and boy asked.  
“I said stop the horse.” Guinevere stated patiently, as if there was a possibility the two of them had not heard her the first time.  
“But it’s cold.” Squirrel pouted. Guinevere’s hand gently played with the hair at the back of his neck, which was warm. She was sure the boy exaggerated.  
Lancelot -not having forgotten their agreement- stopped the horse silently, when it came to a halt, he looked down at her, a displeased question in his eyes. Guinevere did not answer him, instead she started to peel the layers of blanket and cloak back to free herself from the safe space Squirrel and herself had created.  
“What are you doing?” Lancelot could not rid his voice of sleep although it was now tainted with genuine concern, making it sound deeper. Almost like a threat.  
Guinevere moved to get ready to get off the horse but soon realized this would hurt a lot more if she did it without help.  
“Help me off?” she asked and felt strangely vulnerable in doing it.  
Lancelot frowned and striking brows pulled together as he took her in for a moment as if he was considering if he was agreeing with this plan.  
“We’re not stopping here.” Apparently, he did not.   
“I need to do something.”   
The urgency that had carried from her dream through to real life made her feel uncomfortable, hands tingling and her heart beating faster. They needed help. They couldn’t stay out here forever. Lancelot eyed her suspiciously before getting off the horse in one swift motion, boots landing in snow that reached almost up to his ankles. Guinevere wrinkled her nose at the thought of having to touch it, pulled the cloak back over her shoulders and moved her legs to one side. She looked down to see him standing there, waiting and staring up at her, and felt like this was a strange trial of trust. There was silence as they looked at each other, and Squirrel broke it, thankfully.   
“Hurry up, will you? I’m tired.”  
Guinevere glanced at the boy and smirked, forcing herself not to think too much as she slipped off the horse and into Lancelot’s arms, who caught her like she might break. The smirk faded as she found herself pressed against his chest, her hands spread out on black fabric, his hands firmly at her waist. Her throat was suddenly dry, knees weak not only from the pain that shot through her body but because of _that look_. Weeping eyes meeting hers and held the same emotion as the night she saved him from those horrible humans. A mix of awe and recognition. Guinevere was pulled from her thoughts as he put her down slowly, feet touching snow, making her wince.   
“In the name of the Hidden _why_ would you want to stand in that with bare feet!”   
Squirrel pointed at the snow and Guinevere ignored him, thankful for his interference as she quickly turned her head, which was now very hot, unlike her feet.  
“Quiet.” Guinevere ordered as she got down to one knee.  
“What are you doing?” Lancelot shifted restlessly behind her, glancing around, one hand on his trusted sword.  
“Ssh.”  
Guinevere could feel hairs rise on the back of her neck the closer she game to the ground and then the familiar sensation of the marks there tingling, telling her she was close, coaxing her into listening. Snow melted under her bare feet and with it the cold. _Wæter is thy body, wæter is thy savior._ Her mind immediately chanted. She moved slow and deliberate, putting her hand to that white blanket and watched as the snow turned into water. Guinevere smiled sadly, never not amazed at this sacred connection, and watched how the water hugged her hand lovingly, pulling her hand to the ground.  
“I know, I know.” She whispered at the sensation, silver slivers caressing her skin, running along her bruised knuckles and into the bandages to soothe her burns. Guinevere tried to shake the thoughts of how they had gotten there.   
“Guinevere…” Lancelot said behind her.  
“Watch!” Squirrel stopped him excitedly.  
She closed her eyes and listened, not with her ears but with her entire being, as her hand was pressed to ground that was frozen but melted at her touch. _Wæter is thy body, wæter is thy savior._ It wasn’t her doing, it wasn’t the magic that ran through her veins, it was the water responding to part of their own. The sensation made her emotional and all of a sudden it was hard not to give in, tears already forming behind closed eyes. Guinevere took a deep shaky breath to center herself, letting it out between shaky lips and as she concentrated she could feel the water call out to her.   
_“Wæter is thy body, wæter is thy savior_.” She did not notice whispering this out loud.   
Overwhelmed by the call of the vein of water deep underground, pulsing at her fingertips, she could feel warmth and steam and the promise of safety. It called at her, almost making her fall over, wanting to dive into that salvation that was hidden so far beneath the ground. The back of her neck felt like warm liquid now too, running all the way down her spine and when she opened her eyes the water promised it would not leave her. That it would guide her to this sacred place. Reluctantly she pulled back her hand and looked up at Lancelot hovering beside her.   
“I know where to go.” 

  
***  
  
“Did the Hidden tell you where we need to go?”   
Percival asked the question as if it was the most normal thing in the world and Lancelot couldn’t help but stare down at Guinevere as she looked back at him. Tears there in her eyes, but they did not fall. Lancelot’s body was quick to respond as his mind was still stuck in what had just happened before his eyes. His body squatted down next to her, helping her up. His mind was screaming at him.  
“Yes.” She answered the boy but did not break eye contact. What was that look?   
“Well then, let’s go.” Percival said casually, making Lancelot feel like an outsider.  
“What was that?” Lancelot breathed low, old habits creeping up on him because this was what he was supposed to say. What he was supposed to do. Taught to do. But the question did not sound convincing, instead the words lingered in the air in wonder. He was still holding onto her arm and she let him, her hand on his chest, which burned hot at her touch. His entire being was ablaze and although he was tired, he felt more alive than ever. His mind still replaying the sight of the marks on her neck responding to the water that had crept up her hand. Water that _had been_ _snow_. Lancelot’s mind was screaming at him to be scared, to condemn this evil because they would all go to hell because of it but then why did it not _feel_ that way, why did this feel the farthest away from hell he could be?  
“Will you trust me?”  
Her hand twitched and there was a plea in her eyes that made the question and the air around them feel heavy. She only now seemed to realize she had laid herself bare in front of the Weeping Monk, allowing him to witness that which he had burned entire villages for and although there was a hint of fear there, her voice was demanding and determined. Lancelot couldn’t speak, _wouldn’t_ speak, as his lips pressed together, and he considered the question. Trusting Fey was violently exorcised from him since childhood yet his mind wandered to the moment she had burst into that tent when he was _this close_ to surrender his life. _You touch him, you die_. The words had not been empty, Wicklow did die at her hand and she had almost sacrificed her life for his. She still carried the consequences of it on her skin and in her bones. Lancelot couldn’t look at those pleading eyes, he needed to think. Think about the snow and the cold and the lack of shelter. Think about how tired he was and how small the child was that sat on Goliath’s back staring at him. He would need sleep and shelter and food. They had an agreement. Guinevere’s hand slipped from his chest and fell to her side, but the expression on her face did not waver. There was a coldness in his chest where her hand had been that made Lancelot nod, once, curtly. And it felt true. She returned the gesture and her eyes had softened.  
“It’s not far.” She promised him quietly before turning to walk back to the horse.   
Lancelot was struck by the realization that deciding to trust her was easy because he already did.  
  


***  
  
Their promised sanctuary would’ve been impossible to find if it wasn’t for the persistent pulse at the back of Guinevere’s neck and the inaudible call of the water. All of her senses focused on this, so they didn’t have to deal with how fear and guilt had nestled themselves in her body.  
“So, you’re Wæter-folk? I’ve never met one of you before.”   
Squirrel mused lightheartedly, as if it wasn’t at all strange to have this conversation in front of a notorious Fey killer turned savior. A savior that was particularly quiet.  
“Well, there’s not many of us left. We joined a different tribe before...”   
Guinevere’s voice died mid-sentence because she did not want to go there. Not tonight.   
“Do you all have those things in your neck?” Squirrel again, pointing at his own neck and Guinevere shook her head.  
“They’re given to you by the Hidden when you…” she hesitated, “…make your first kill in name of the tribe. To show the others you’re a protector of the people.”  
Guinevere used to talk about this with pride, now her heart hurt. She focused on the task ahead again, scanning their environment which grew wilder, swelling up and sloping down like snow-covered waves.  
“Like a warrior tribe.” Squirrel said.  
“Like a warrior tribe.” Guinevere agreed.  
“I remember my mother telling stories about the Wæter-folk. She said they are amongst the bravest of Fey.”  
Guinevere was distracted because the feeling that had been pulling in her chest grew stronger now, making her feel restless.  
“What is it?”  
It was the first time Lancelot spoke since they had started their search - _her_ search- and his voice was low and tense, picking up on her unease.  
“We’re close.”  
Guinevere glanced over her shoulder because the man behind her had begun to move and jumped off Goliath’s back, the snow now almost to his knees. All three of them had grown cold, not even able to get warm off of each other. She watched him in confusion, wondering what he was doing as he walked around the horse, took its reins in his hands -which were red and stiff with cold- and started wading his way through the snow.   
“What am I looking for?”   
Guinevere was surprised by this unexpected helpfulness and felt slightly guilty for making the man go through knee-high snow, bit if this at all bothered him, he did not show it.  
She hesitated and considered the right answer, closing her eyes in concentration, focusing on the sensation at the nape of her neck.  
“A cave.” The answer came to her without knowing exactly what this was or what it looked like but Lancelot seemed to have enough to go by and started moving, pulling Goliath along with him.  
Guinevere watched him with sad eyes, knowing how tired he had looked softened the emotions of blaming him for leaving Squirrel and herself with a human unable to defend themselves but the feeling was still there, lurking right beside her own guilt.  
“That way.” Guinevere pointed in the general direction of a hill just to their side and Lancelot followed her lead without saying a word. Snow was still coming down, and Guinevere pulled Squirrel even closer.  
“Are you alright?” she asked again, the boy nodded.   
“Are you?” he mumbled back.  
“I—”  
Guinevere stopped as Lancelot let go of the reins and moved forward, her eyes never leaving him as he moved down the slope of a hill and disappeared out of sight.  
“Where are you going?” Squirrel called out, worry in his voice.   
“It’s alright…” Guinevere said, distracted as she held the boy close and looked out at the snow beyond, waiting for the black of Lancelot’s robes to return.   
It took a moment, maybe a little longer even, but since she had asked for his trust it seemed only fair to return the favor. She waited as the pull in her chest made it almost impossible not to move.   
Lancelot returned with a little more life in his step, finding his way back through the path he had carved out for himself on the way there.  
“Did you find it?” she asked, hopeful and sure as the man approached them and took the horse’s reins in his hands again. When he looked up and nodded, his eyes were softer.  
“You were right.”  
Guinevere couldn’t help but smile, a soft chuckle escaping her even as Squirrel started cheering too. Finally, they could rest.  
  


*** 

Their newfound shelter was as miraculous as the way Guinevere had found it and for a moment Lancelot caught himself believing this was an act of God.  
Hidden behind snow-covered ivy and tree roots had been the entrance to a cave, buried at the foot of a hill. Snow spilled in still but the farther they had traveled, the warmer it got. The space was big enough for Goliath to follow, albeit barely at times, until the light of the small torch he carried revealed a bigger space. The air was hotter there, damp, like mist and his cold hands and feet had started to tingle painfully as they warmed. The cave had opened up into a room, surrounded by smaller rooms and tunnels that would hardly fit a child. Some rooms hidden in thick steam that came from a small pool just at the side of the cave and made its way into the tunnels. Or was it the other way around? Lancelot had taken it upon himself to find whatever he could for a fire while Guinevere had gathered their things to make Percival comfortable.  
“Will you sit down?” Guinevere now asked as Lancelot kept himself busy with the fire.   
The cave was comfortable enough for him to take off his cloak, which he had hung to dry. The truth was he was still slightly uncomfortable with the miracle of finding this place, which made him restless.  
“Just sit, Lancelot.” Percival said.   
The boy hummed by the fire, contently picking stones from it and putting them between his stolen blanket.  
“You want one?” the boy said as he caught Lancelot looking at him. Lancelot shook his head.  
“I thought you were tired.” Lancelot said.  
“I was also very cold.”  
Lancelot couldn’t help but smirk at that, however faint, as he nodded slowly.   
“You look terrible.” Percival said now, “Take one.”   
The boy threw a stone at him and Lancelot caught it expertly, which was hot to the touch but not uncomfortable, holding it in both hands.   
“He’s right, you know. You do look terrible.”  
Lancelot’s gaze moved from Percival to Guinevere, who sat just beside the boy. Her words weren’t kind, but her expression was. She was still bundled up in her cloak, warming her bound feet by the fire.   
“I’m fine.” Lancelot replied, staring down at the rock in his hands.  
“You should sleep.”   
He didn’t want to sleep because sleep brought dreams, and dreams turned into nightmares. He wanted to stay in this stillness for a bit longer, adjusting to their environment, distracted enough not to think about the things that had happened lately.  
“I’m fine.” He looked at her now, a warning, and she raised her brows in return.  
“Alright.”  
She rested her chin on her knees, staring into the small fire, always between them.  
“So, what do we do now?” Percival asked no one in particular as he moved closer to Guinevere, putting his head down next to her. The woman looked down at him and shrugged.  
“We rest.”   
“And after that?” the boy yawned.  
“We’ll keep moving until we find Fey.”  
“What if we never find them?”   
“We will.”  
And as the boy snuggled up to her she shot Lancelot a look that seemed to say more than words could, Lancelot just wasn’t speaking the language yet.

***  
  
Guinevere had been too tired to answer the water’s calling at first, but she woke up to another nightmare and when she did it was as if it was singing to her. Beckoning for her to come to it, like a parent would to a child.  
The cave was quiet except for the occasional neigh from Goliath who was probably hungry and exhausted. Squirrel was asleep next to her, hand outstretched to the fire and she moved to put it back in his blanket. Across from them, Lancelot was finally asleep, which softened Guinevere’s face into a slight smile. They were safe here, she could _feel_ it.   
Getting up was hard, her body stiff from the cold and its injuries but once she was up she was alright. She made her way to the other side of the cave and sat down by the edge of the spring there, it’s warm earthy scent carried up by small clouds of steam.  
Guinevere looked down at her hands, still covered in the man’s blood, and hoped that if she could rid herself of it she could rid herself of the guilt she felt over taking the man’s life. She peeled at the bandages, careful not to tear the delicate skin, and started to unravel her hands slow and deliberately. When she was done with one hand, she moved to the next, and when both hands were bare again she looked at her palms, which looked raw and pink, the usual creases and smaller scars were gone. A stranger’s hands. One of the strange hands reached up now, to her chest, where another foreign mark branded her body. She pulled the fabric of the gown back and looked down. Guinevere wasn’t taught to care about the way she looked but carrying a human symbol for a scar upset her. There was nothing proud in those scars, they were just a sign of her weakness and stupidity. She should’ve never let her guard down while hunting alone, she should’ve never let her guard down at all. As she pushed that thought away and put her hands in the warm water she could hear something move behind her.   
Lancelot was quiet as he moved toward her with what looked like fresh bindings in his hands. Somewhere through the night -or was it already day…- he had taken off his overgarments and the lighter tunic underneath made him look like a different man. He moved slow, thoughtfully, before sitting down by the water next to her. He did not speak as he watched her wash the blood from her hands, which hurt at first, but the water was kind to her, taking that hurt and turning it into comfort. Guinevere smiled slightly as she pulled her hands from the water and turned her palms up to inspect them. They still looked raw and painful, but the oozing blisters were clean and almost gone now.  
Lancelot was still silent when he reached out to take her wrist, only glancing at her for permission as he took the binding and put it to her skin. Guinevere watched him, unable to speak herself as warm fingertips pressed against her skin.   
“Hold this.” He instructed and Guinevere put a thumb to the fabric, never taking her eyes off Lancelot. She only tore them from his solemn face to look down at his hands, which moved slowly to wrap hers in fresh white cloth. She wondered if he had ever been this gentle with something, or someone, before. The gesture was so kind, she felt her walls come down, or maybe it was more like their gates opened just for him, just for this moment.   
“I keep seeing his face.”   
Lancelot’s eyes shot up to hers as she spoke and Guinevere was quick to avoid that gaze, looking down at his hands, which had stopped moving. The man did not speak, patiently waiting for her to continue. Guinevere swallowed and Lancelot resumed his work.   
“I shouldn’t have killed him.”  
“You had no choice.” His whisper was urgent but when Guinevere looked at him his eyes were cast down.  
“I wanted to.” She admitted, guilt tearing her apart from the inside out. She had wanted to kill for a while now, hopelessly trying to rid herself of the pain that had taken over her heart. Lancelot’s lips pressed together in thought, hands still moving, pulling at the bindings to secure them which hurt but Guinevere took the punishment with grace.   
“He was human.” The man said slowly, voice low, as if every word was chosen carefully.   
“That doesn’t make it alright.”  
“Don’t Fey hate humans?” the question seemed unusually innocent coming from his lips, brows furrowed as if he was trying to solve a riddle. Guinevere looked at the water, sighing a tired sigh as she considered her answer as carefully as Lancelot curated his questions.  
“We were made to.”   
Eyes met as Lancelot paused working at her other hand.  
“Just because something might be dangerous doesn’t mean you have to kill it...”  
The man dropped her hand abruptly and Guinevere realized what her words must sound like to him. He moved to sit up straight, and Guinevere was quick to react, reaching out to grab his wrist, half-finished bandages coming undone in the process. He looked at her with those wild eyes again, like that caged animal, and in a way, she now understood that was what he had always been. She wondered what it would look like if he was set free.  
“…it also doesn’t mean you get to use it as a weapon.”

***  
  
“… _it also doesn’t mean you get to use it as a weapon.”  
_ Lancelot knew she was referring to their previous conversation. She had turned an insult into understanding so skillfully he was taken completely off guard by it. He pulled his wrist from her hand and cleared his throat, gathering the white ribbon that had fallen into his lap and taking her hand again, a little less gentle this time. He moved quicker now, ill at ease, distracting her with a question and Guinevere let him.   
“Does it still hurt?”  
“It’s fine.”  
Lancelot looked up because he knew this was a lie, he knew it because his own body still hurt over what had happened to him, so he couldn’t believe hers wasn’t broken. Thoughts of how they had ended up here, like this, raised the question he had been trying to figure out for days now and he finally found the courage to ask it.  
“Why did you come after me?”  
It was Guinevere’s turn to be caught off guard now, he knew this because her hand twitched in his. She was exceptionally good at hiding it from her face though, taking her time to come with an answer.  
“I had a feeling you might need my help.”  
There was a hint of a dangerous smirk just at the corner of full lips and a glint in dark eyes and he wondered if she was trying to make this easier for the both of them. He mirrored the gesture and let go of her hand, finished with the bandages. When he looked back up her face was serious and she parted her lips to speak, swallowing the words before trying again. When she spoke, it was slow and tentative, but she pushed through.   
“You saved Squirrel, and me. I…” She frowned and looked down at her hands. “I thought you deserved to be saved too.”  
“I don’t understand.”  
“What don’t you understand?” she asked, patient while Lancelot was still trying to process her words.  
“How did you know?”  
She chuckled and the sound was so calm it warmed him to the core, as did the words that started to sink in. He was afraid to believe them.  
“Well, call me crazy but I don’t believe the Red Paladins let you run off with a Fey child voluntarily.”  
Lancelot sat back, slowly relaxing into his own body now, almost unnoticeably.  
“I saw what they did to you. I wasn’t going to let that happen again.”  
His heart raced as his mind told him not to believe these incredibly kind words, if something seemed too good to be true, it was. He had learned this the hard way.  
“Even if I was human?”  
“But you’re not.”  
“What if I was?”  
“What if you were?”  
Guinevere’s voice was fierce, like a challenge. She held his gaze so steadily it was hard to look at her but unbearable to look away. Lancelot’s breath was unsteady and by the way her chest heaved he could tell hers was too.   
“Did Percival tell you?”   
Lancelot was thinking out loud, dissecting their conversation to make sense of it and these feelings building up inside of him.  
“No.”  
Guinevere followed along as if she knew what was coming, strong voice never wavering. So certain of herself while Lancelot grew more confused with each answer.  
“You went back without knowing what I was.”  
“I did.”  
The cave was silent as he let that sink in and Guinevere turned her face to look back at the water, she looked tired. It took Lancelot a while to speak, but silence was never uncomfortable with her.   
“You could’ve died.”  
“Yes.”  
“Do you know what you’ve done?”   
The question did not come from a place of judgement, he just needed to know if she was brave or tired of life altogether. When she frowned at him in confusion he went on.  
“Do you realize who you killed that night?”  
“I hope someone important.”  
It was Lancelot’s turn to chuckle now. It was involuntarily -like most reactions Guinevere provoked in him- and honest and _comfortable_. Her mouth smiled but her eyes were sad. _A beautiful mess.  
_ “Important enough for the Pope to hear about it.”  
As Lancelot answered, they both turned serious and for the first time the gravity of what had happened sank in. He could never go back. He had made his decision even when he had not been ready. It was just so very hard to figure out where to go from here.   
“Good.”  
Guinevere looked at him and her face was hard. She meant it, in a hateful way, and she wasn’t scared either. Instead she looked proud, and _strong_ for the first time in days. The way she had looked while fighting for her life. No, the way she had looked while fighting for _his_. The look was brief as she averted her gaze again, back to the water. Always the water.  
“They were going to burn me at the stake.”  
The words angered him as he watched her and tried to imagine something so beautiful burning alive. Burning the long dark hair that was tucked behind her small ear, the marks on her neck and her skin, which he remembered was soft and smelled like her hair. The thought nauseated him, causing another shift in his view on the world, severing even more ties to the past.  
“I know.” Lancelot hissed through clenched teeth and the strained sound caught her attention. She looked at him and cocked her head to the side a little making the hair fall from behind her ear. She was looking through his eyes and straight into his soul and it was too much. So he spoke.  
“Where did you learn how to fight like that?” the question slipped out of him.  
“Four brothers and a warrior tribe. And you?”  
Lancelot should’ve known the question would be returned; he should have but he wasn’t prepared for it because he had never had a conversation like this. Part of him wanted to run from the question, the memories buried deep, but a bigger part wanted to continue the conversation. He was fighting this battle internally when Guinevere’s hand moved over his.  
“It’s alright.”  
She squeezed his hand for a moment in something that felt like sympathy but pulled it away before Lancelot could decipher the gesture exactly. He felt like he had failed at something.  
“I’m sorry.” He mumbled.  
“There’s no need.”  
There was another silence and both of them looked up as Percival murmured in his sleep, the boy turned around and sighed but did not wake up.  
“Why did you help him?”  
“What do you mean?” Lancelot looked at Guinevere, trying to decode the look on her face.  
“He’s Fey.”  
“He’s a child.”   
“He told me you took on the Trinity Guards, aren’t they your greatest soldiers?”  
Lancelot glared at her for speaking those words, surprised by the hatred they conjured in him and quickly looked down when she frowned back at him.  
“I don’t harm the children.” He said the words like they were holy scripture. In his heart it was.  
“But they were going to.” She stated. “They have for a long time.”  
“I couldn’t…” Lancelot looked up now, suddenly overcome by emotions he had suppressed for so long. So much of it that its fruit welled up in the shape of tears in his eyes and a tremor in his voice. He fought to keep both under control.  
“They did it to you. They would do it to Squirrel…” Guinevere’s voice was a mix of revelation and horror.  
“The way he said it..” Lancelot bit his lip and shook his head as memories resurfaced. “He asked if Percival could smell out Fey, _like an animal_. Like me.”   
Lancelot shook his head again, sucking in a sharp breath as he mustered the courage to finally give her a true answer.  
“I saved him because I don’t believe a child deserves to be treated like an animal.”  
“Like they treated you.”  
“Yes.”  
His eyes shifted to look at her again, expecting pity but finding something very different. Anger, a lot of it, but as she spoke there was no sign of it in her voice. Lancelot wondered where she had learned how to do that.  
“What will you do now?”  
Another question that caught him off guard, or maybe it didn’t since it had haunted him ever since that night.   
“I don’t know.”   
She nodded slowly, mulling over that answer before her face softened. Dark eyes so soft they almost looked liquid.  
“I could use your help.”  
Lancelot looked at her again, it was the only thing he could do throughout this conversation, look and look away, he had no idea what else to do.  
“I don’t know what I’m doing…” she admitted, her voice suddenly fragile. “I have no idea where I’m going.”   
Guinevere laughed but the sound was sad and desperate as she shook her head and shrugged, suddenly restless, like something had broken and she did not know how to unbreak it at this point.   
“I know I said I didn’t want you to know where they are…I didn’t want…”   
Words spilled out of her now, the sound of them growing more desperate as she went on.   
“They say you can find us anywhere…”  
The words didn’t hurt as much as he thought they should because he was distracted by her pain, something that hurt _much more_ than he _knew_ it should.  
“I don’t know where to find them…I don’t know where to go.”   
“Didn’t you say to go north?” Lancelot asked, genuinely surprised that she had been able to convince both the boy and him that she was so sure where to go. She had been strong and certain and stubborn about this for days and now…  
“Those were just rumors. What if they are false?”  
Guinevere got up now, too quickly which made her sway slightly and Lancelot was on his feet before he knew what he was doing. He watched her intently, hands tingling, aching to reach out but his mind told him not to. Guinevere started to pace now, her voice growing louder. Lancelot quickly looked at Percival sleeping in the corner.  
“What if I was wrong?”  
The woman paced and rubbed her brow.  
“What if they’re already gone? What if they’re already…”  
“Don’t.”   
Lancelot warned as her mind threatened to go a place darker than she could handle right now.  
“Don’t go there.”  
His hand hovered in the air between them, as if he was soothing Goliath, trying to calm a nervous animal. She stopped pacing and looked at him and he could see she was crying. Tears shimmering in the dying light of the fire, which flickered because she had been moving so much.  
“I’ll help you.”  
The promise hung heavy in the air between them, the only sound coming from Guinevere that of a strangled sob. He stared at her, willing her to believe it, and she looked back at him through tears.  
He knew his offer was less than believable, he also knew their kinship was less than sensible, but he could not help but mean the words with the entirety of his heart. 

  
***  
  
Panic was a hard thing to control and it had crept up on her like an assassin in the dark. Her mind going over all possible scenario’s, all of them dark and unfortunate. The truth was as soon as she had admitted to the man in front of her -to herself- that she had no idea what she was doing it felt so true it scared her more than anything. She had tricked herself into thinking she had a purpose in bringing Squirrel back to their people and it had kept her going long enough to suppress all that had happened but all of it resurfaced with such violence she could barely contain it.  
“I’ll help you.”  
Lancelot’s voice was low and deep, a solemn promise that kept her from tipping over that edge and into insanity. He stood opposite her and as everything around her swayed he was still, staring at her through weeping eyes as she looked back at him through hers. The promise was different from their agreement and they both seemed to realize this. A sob escaped from the cage that was Guinevere’s body, ripping free from her painfully. She wanted to speak, wanted to voice those horrible thoughts running through her mind just to rid herself of them but when she couldn’t she sought refuge with the man instead. Falling against his chest, desperate for something to hold onto and to her surprise strong arms found their way around her body. Careful at first, but when she did not protest they closed in, keeping her together. One of his hands was on the back of her head, she could feel the warm pressure of it calm her down and as he spoke again, she could feel warm breath against her forehead and the tremor of his voice in his chest. Guinevere closed her eyes and allowed herself to lean into that feeling of safety because she had no strength left in her to do anything else.  
“I will find them.” Lancelot said. “ _For you_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMYGOD Lancelot said what? I hope you are as excited as I am. These two have my heart forever <3


	16. Safe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have not forgotten about Lance and Guin, and I have not forgotten about you all! So here's an extra long update, I have a feeling you'll like it :)

15.  
  
_____  
  


_In the cracks of light, I dreamed of you  
  
  
_

Lancelot could still feel his arms tingle where they had touched her body, he could still feel his chest burn with the warmth of her, he could still feel her soft hair against his hand. Guinevere had finally fallen asleep next to the boy, who was already curled up against her back gratefully.  
He had gone outside after their conversation so the cool air could help clear his mind, which worked if only for a little while. Outside the day had started or maybe it was close to ending already, there was no way of telling. It had been dark and gloomy and so he had returned to the cave and worked on the fire while going over all that had happened.  
The promise he made filled him with a newfound purpose that was strangely calming, it felt like the grace he had been looking for for so long now. Some respite from the self-doubt and self-hatred because now he had something to keep him going. That thought made his eyes drift to her face again, despite working on the fire, and they stayed there. The tears were gone, her eyes closed, and the pain had disappeared entirely from her face. Knowing he had played a part in that made his heart skip an inexplicable beat and his mind snapped right back to that moment where his arms had folded around her so _naturally_. He had not forgotten how she had held him when he was spiraling and returning the gesture was easier than he would’ve thought. Just like the promise had been easy, his mind had been completely quiet except for the need to offer her his help. Now, his mind would not shut up, repeating their conversation and the things she said while other -more vicious- voices tried to lead him astray. Back to that dark place where no God was willing to listen to his prayers. One thing was strong in his mind though, _I thought you deserved to be saved too,_ and so he held onto that because no one had ever deemed him deserving of anything before. His eyes shifted to her face again, like stolen glances even while no one was watching. Maybe God was watching…Lancelot thought. She was Fey, she was God’s true enemy, what if she had bewitched him into making damned promises and feeling sinful things? No. This wasn’t her doing. He could feel it, he could see that now. Why was everything _so clear_ when she was awake and so hazy when she was not? Lancelot rubbed his face, trying to rid himself of his thoughts and ran a hand through his hair, stopping as his fingertips reached the scar on the back of his head. His hand trembled now, and he pulled it back as if the scar had burned his hand, suddenly nauseous.  
“Guin, are you up?”  
Lancelot looked up as something started to stir in the heap of blankets and cloaks beside him. Percival was awake, rubbing sleepy eyes as he peered at the woman, his tiny hand already reaching out to her shoulder when Lancelot shook his head.  
“Let her sleep.” Lancelot was surprised at the tenderness in his own voice, like he was surprised about a lot of things he had discovered about himself lately. Percival looked up at him and smiled mischievously before turning around and crawling out of the blankets.  
“Good morning.” He said, chipper and very much awake as he sat down next to Lancelot.   
“I actually think it’s the afternoon.” Lancelot said, whispering and hoping Percival would follow that behavior. The boy shrugged, grabbed the nearest stick and started to poke the fire unnecessarily as Lancelot eyed him closely. He seemed restless, eyes shifting about the cave, fingers tapping on his little knee as he pursed his lips. Lancelot put his hand over Percival’s to stop him from poking the fire when sparks started to fly from it. The boy sat quietly for exactly one heartbeat before getting up.  
“What are you doing?” Lancelot asked, perfectly content with sitting and staring at the fire some more if it had been up to him. But apparently it wasn’t.  
“When are we leaving?”  
The boy moved around the cave now, looking up and around with his hands clasped behind his back.  
“When Guinevere feels better.” There was something strangely intimate about speaking for her and Lancelot could feel heat rise up to his cheeks.  
“She sleeps a lot.”  
“Yes.”  
“Can I go outside?”  
“No.”  
Percival looked down at his feet as he started to chew on his bottom lip, still walking around. Kicking stones now. Lancelot glanced back at Guinevere, who was still sound asleep.  
“It’s very cold here, that must mean we’re close to the north right? Can’t be long now…What happens when we find them? Will you stay with us?”  
That question caught his attention and he sat up, watching the boy closely as he stared back at Lancelot defiantly. The question shouldn’t be so hard to answer. The answer had always been _no_. But after what happened last night that did not feel as definitive as it once had, his entire world shifting yet again.  
“I don’t think I can.”  
“Why not?” Percival said, genuinely confused.   
Lancelot wondered how the boy could so easily forgive the horrors he had committed.  
“I don’t think they’d want me to.” Lancelot said darkly, looking back into the fire again. The fire that helped him destroy so many things.  
“Well, _we_ would.” Percival pulled him from those dark thoughts with words of kindness and Lancelot could only hope they were true.  
“Where else would you go?”   
Another excellent question Lancelot no longer had answers to. His world had changed so much, it was hard to think about a future. And so, he shrugged slightly, uncomfortable, as he got up and started to get dressed for the cold.  
“What are you doing?”   
It was the boy’s turn to ask now and there was a slight hint of panic in his voice. Lancelot strapped on his cloak a little too roughly, held onto his sword a little too tightly, the sensations of discomfort grounding him in his own messed up way. He made his way to Goliath, greeting the animal quietly before going through his saddle bags.  
“Where are you going?”  
Lancelot closed his eyes as he realized he could not leave the boy here alone with the woman and expect her to get rest. He had wanted so badly to run, to get away from this treacherously warm place and let the cold numb his senses for a while but a sensation very new to him made it impossible for him to give into these needs. He gathered the boy’s behavior was a sign of boredom and so he sighed, and turned around, forcing himself to be very patient about it.  
“Hunting.”  
“Can I come?”  
Lancelot pursed his lips at the question he knew would come as he shot another stolen glance in Guinevere’s direction. The sight of her softened him, something that was not exactly uncomfortable.  
“Fine.”  
“Yes!” Percival jumped excitedly now, and Lancelot shot him a warning glare.  
“Knife and cloak.” He murmured quietly as he pointed at the bed that the boy had shared with Guinevere and the boy nodded solemnly, suddenly focused. Lancelot caught himself smirking, ever so slightly, as he strapped his bow to his back and put his hood over his head. He found himself walking around the fire and to Guinevere, who was still completely still as he got to one knee next to her, his hand hovering near her cheek. Percival looked at him closely, eyes shifting between him and the woman and back and Lancelot’s hand quickly moved to her shoulder instead.  
“Guinevere…” he felt bad about waking her up but knew she would not forgive him if he left her behind without a warning. Especially not if he was taking Percival with him. She moaned as sleep refused to let her go, eyes fluttering open slowly and he felt pleased to see she had been sleeping so deeply. Her hand moved from within the safety of her cloak to his over her shoulder. It was warm.  
“What is it?” she asked, looking up at him and he could tell fear was creeping up on her, he wanted to reassure her before it could get a hold of her.  
“It’s alright.”  
“What…” she moved her hand from his and moved to press herself up now and he was quick to shake his head.  
“Don’t. You should rest. I’m taking Percival hunting.”  
She blinked now and he almost smiled, but the expression faded before it could fully take shape because she shivered. He watched as Percival moved his stolen blanket over her and it was her turn to smile now as she turned her head to look at the boy.  
“Hey, you.”  
“Lance is taking me hunting!”   
Lancelot flinched slightly at the loudness of the boy’s voice, wanting to gently warn him to be quiet but Guinevere did not seem to mind too much. If anything, she seemed content to be surrounded by both of them.  
“ _Lance_?”  
Lancelot sat frozen, still slightly envious of that ease between them while her sleepy voice saying his name like that sent a shiver up his spine, when it reached the back of his neck she turned to look at him again and his lips parted subconsciously. She was still smiling slightly when she looked at him, eyes sleepy but not at all afraid to meet his. He wanted more of that smile, more of her looking at him like he was worthy of kindness. He swallowed as he realized his need for her attention.  
“Be careful.”  
“I will.” He promised and got up quickly hoping she had not seen the red on his cheeks or the longing in his eyes.

***

Guinevere turned onto her back, snug and warm under the extra blanket Squirrel had given her. The cave was quiet now, except for the dripping sound of water here and there, which was very calming. For the first time in forever she had slept without fear and without dreams. For the first time since…

No, she would not think of that. Not now. She stared at the structure of the cave, admiring it as the fire made light move all over its walls, the reflections of water dancing around the cave and Guinevere smiled softly at the water seemed to greet her, winking at her, telling her it had never forgotten about her. She moved to take a look at her hands, which were still bound and this took her back to the night before. Skin still tingling at the thought of his on hers, gentle touched by rough hands and she suddenly realized there was no pain there anymore. Not even in her palms, which had been in bad shape. Guinevere stayed down but peeled at the fabric, untying it from one hand to find it almost entirely healed. She gasped in awe, turning her hand, examining it before undoing the other hand of its bindings too. Both hands looked pinkish and raw but healed. Guinevere hugged her own hands close and closed her eyes, emotions strong and her thoughts drifted off to the events of that night. How she had felt safe when he -Lancelot- held her close, promising her his help. The sound of a heart beating strong and steady in that wide chest, the sensation of warmth in his arms, the soft pressure of them against her body so soothing and the sound of his voice… Guinevere’s eyes shot open now, startled by where her own mind was taking her. She blinked, just as quickly as her breathing had become. The truth was she had looked at him differently since that night at the Red Paladin camp, not because he was Fey -although the tragedy of his past did play a role- but because of how well they had worked together. How filled with trust she had been, so calm and determined and invincible even when her body had never been closer to dying than it had been that very night. That sensation of trust and calm had not left her, she felt it whenever she looked into his eyes, whenever she heard his voice, like the part of him that was shown to her that night had imprinted on her and she could never look at him the same again. Guinevere looked around the cave now and where she had enjoyed the silence at first it now felt emptier than it was supposed to be. She had not been alone since…Guinevere pushed the thought away again. The thought of red fabric everywhere, the thought of pain everywhere, the thought of fear everywhere. She was so tired still, and sore, so sore but the silence suddenly made her uncomfortable as all that had happened kept creeping up on her, like dark tendrils trying to pull her down. She just wanted to sleep a dreamless sleep again. So, she allowed herself to repeat Lancelot’s promise in her mind until she did just that.

***

  
“Closer to your cheek.”  
Lancelot’s voice was low and quiet, almost a whisper.  
“Now breathe out as you let go.”  
The bow was too big for the boy, the arrow too long, but with a little help the boy managed to use it, missing its target but getting close nonetheless and Lancelot caught himself smiling, if only a little.  
“Very good.” He complimented the boy as he turned around to look at him.  
“But I missed.”  
“It was your first try.”  
“Do you ever miss?”  
Lancelot smirked dangerously now, he knew the answer to that question would not please the boy, so he lied.  
“Sometimes.”  
“Liar.”  
“Try again.” Lancelot said patiently.   
He remembered patience was important, it had not been shown to him enough. The boy’s large eyes glistened with mischief and Lancelot pointed ahead, at the tree he was supposed to hit. Percival stood very still, snow almost up to his knees, as he concentrated and repeated his actions.  
“Cheek.” Lancelot pointed out gently, so quiet he wondered if the boy could’ve even heard it. Percival obeyed nonetheless, remembering what he had been taught. His little arm trembled as he pulled the arrow back, but he persisted. Lancelot watched intently, very focused, mumbling a few more pointers before the boy shot his arrow again. It skimmed the side of the tree and the boy jumped, laughing through his small victory.  
“Did you see that?”  
Lancelot stood with his arms crossed, tucked away in the safety of his hood so the boy couldn’t possibly see the pride in his eyes, but he nodded and Lancelot could see the boy’s own pride all over his face. Lancelot’s heart sank as he struggled to understand how anyone could be cruel to a face like that, but he knew it happened, he had lived it. He looked down now, suddenly lost in thought, another painful shift. Father Carden had been cruel to him that way, Lancelot was only now starting to realize it.  
“What’s wrong?”  
Lancelot had not noticed Percival walking up to him just now and he was suddenly close, looking up into that hood. The man was quick to shake his head and with it the thoughts from his mind, to rid them from his heart was harder though.  
“Are you hungry?” Lancelot asked, already knowing the answer.  
“Always! But….can I try one more time?” Percival smirked and Lancelot chuckled, entirely this time.  
“You can try as many times as you’d like, just keep your eye out for any game.”

In the end it was Lancelot who actually got their food, but Percival did not seem any less excited about it. As they made their way back to the cave, he kept going over exactly every detail. It was as if he was examining it with admiration, holding Lancelot’s bow proudly, occasionally pretending to shoot something. Lancelot marveled how this child could possibly be so careless after all that he had seen, wondering if maybe there was hope for him left after all.   
Once they got close to their sanctuary Lancelot showed the boy how to cover tracks in snow. It was not hard for him to find their way back to the cave by memory, but even if it had been her scent could’ve led him right back. He let himself get lost in how it grew stronger for a moment, quieting his thoughts as he warned Percival to be quiet once they went in. He had not expected to find her awake, sitting up, by a fire that looked strong and tended to.  
“You’re up.” He sighed awkwardly as Percival rushed past him, bringing in snow with him, like the little whirlwind he was.   
“Yes, I am.”  
Guinevere sat with her legs crossed, back to wearing her old trousers, the nightgown -or well, previously a nightgown- in her lap. She smiled up at the both of them, pausing whatever she was working on hunched over her lap like that. She was wearing her cloak but as she moved Lancelot could see the uncovered skin of her stomach and he quickly looked away.  
“How was hunting?” she asked as if it was the most normal thing in the world. Lancelot had to admit it felt nice. Quiet and easy, he liked quiet.  
“We got two rabbits! I almost shot one but it got away…I really almost got it though, right Lance?” Percival took the dead animals and offered them to Guinevere proudly, so she could see their catch, the boy looked back at him hopeful and Lancelot nodded in agreement.  
“Lucky rabbit then, got to live another day.” Guinevere joked and Lancelot looked down, smiling at her words in the shadows of his hood as he walked up closer to the two of them. He reached out to Percival’s shoulder and tapped it lightly.  
“Come on. I’ll show you how to clean them.”  
Percival got up eagerly and Lancelot’s gaze fell upon the fabric in Guinevere’s lap again. It looked like she had used the gown to make a tunic.  
“You made that?”  
She looked up from her work again, frowning and she looked like she was afraid she had done something wrong.  
“I went through the bags to find my things and I found some things I could work with, I hope I didn’t…” she didn’t finish the sentence and Lancelot quickly shook his head.  
“You’re free to use anything you need.”   
“Thank you.”  
The words held more meaning than just the simple thanking for using his belongings, he could see that. She held his gaze, _truly_ held it as if with her hands, and Lancelot could not make himself look away until he noticed he had stopped breathing. He turned swiftly when Percival squatted down with the rabbits and joined him, heart racing faster than it had during any fight.

***   
  
Guinevere was happy to be in the company of the man and the boy again. She never thought she would feel that way when they first met, but she was comfortable as they worked on preparing the rabbits while she worked on more comfortable attire than that horrid nightgown. She had found her old trousers in one of Squirrel’s bags, putting them on felt like coming home. Then she had taken the gown and cut off the parts that had been soaked in blood -her own or the healer’s, there was no way of telling- and burnt them. She felt more like herself than she had in days.  
“Slowly.”  
Guinevere was curious as she looked at Lancelot and Squirrel over the fire. His hood was down now, which she took as a sign that he too was at ease, and the two of them were huddled over the rabbits in utmost concentration.  
“Pull the skin. Don’t tear it. See?” Lancelot instructed quietly, clear but not unfriendly.  
“Why?” Squirrel peeked at him sideways, a puzzled look on his face.  
“We can use it later.”  
Where the markings on his face had looked ominous when she had first met him -hidden in that dark hood- she now wondered how she had not seen exactly what he was. He looked more Fey than anything she had seen and it was mesmerizing. She smiled and shook her head in disbelief of how she had not seen it before. _The only skill you need to master is that of setting aside your pride,_ her mother’s words rang through her mind. Guinevere was caught staring by the man himself, who must have felt her looking at him. Ocean eyes stared right back at her. He didn’t say anything but there was something easier about his face, more relaxed, as if tension had left his jaw, allowing lips to turn soft and eyes to round and it was Guinevere’s turn to look away now, down at her work in her lap because her entire being was burning and she hoped he couldn’t tell.  
“Like this?” Squirrel asked curiously.  
“Yes, that’s good.”  
When Guinevere looked back, convinced that Lancelot was back to work, she was surprised he was still looking at her. She was sure that surprise was all over her face because when he looked down at Squirrel and his work there was something even softer about this face, something resembling a smile. 

They all worked like that for most of the afternoon, until the rabbits were positioned over the fire and Guin had finished most of her work, enough to dress herself properly anyway. The cave was filled with warmth, Squirrel’s happy voice and the smell of food and Guinevere had not felt this safe in years. She was afraid to think of what that might mean, she was afraid to think about it at all because the sensation of safety was so fragile and so rare, she did not want to jeopardize it by questioning it in the first place and so in that sweet bliss of denial she fell asleep before the food was even ready.

_Guinevere was circling Eddard, her lifelong friend, smirking dangerously as she waited for him to make the first move. Sword up high, leaving her side exposed in a bold invitation, her signature move and her brother’s before her. Her brother who was at the edge of the crowd, arms crossed and a knowing grin on his face. Guinevere was giddy with anticipation as the village gathered in a circle around Eddard and herself. They were only playing, showing off,_ her _people knew this but the new addition to their tribe which they had recently gotten through marriage did not. They did not share their culture and so they watched closely, some in fear, others in admiration. Guinevere reveled in it because she knew she was shining, she made a point of showing them exactly who their leader -her husband- had chosen to rule by his side.  
_ _Eddard made the first move, he always did. Predictable. Guinevere closed the opening, coming down on the young man’s sword hard and the sound of iron clashing traveled through the trees. She laughed, stepped forward, once, twice, her weapon an extension of her arm as she attacked Eddard with precision. But he knew her well, despite her unpredictable nature, and took the challenge with bravura. It was the most marvelous game and Guinevere loved the gasps of shock around them, the laughter of her brothers who tried to help Eddard beat their little sister against all odds. It was a show and quickly the new tribe seemed to join in on the fun, learning about this new culture that was added to theirs. Guinevere pushed Eddard until her arms ached and her legs trembled, sweat all over her body, making her hair stick to her face until finally Eddard gave in. She could tell because his face fell, he was no longer smiling. Guinevere took her chance and worked him to the ground with effort, he was not going down without a final fight and she was proud when his back hit the dirt and the tip of her sword was pressed under his chin. The young man looked up at her, smiling wide.  
_ _“You’ve come far, little Guin.”  
_ _The compliment meant a lot to her and Guinevere smiled, chest heaving as she was still catching her breath. All of her childhood Eddard had teased her for her skill and now here they were.  
_ _“I’ll go even further.” She breathed as she pulled back her sword and held out her hand instead. There was laughter and clapping and cheering and as Eddard got up the crowd closed in around the both of them. Congratulating her in the way of her people.  
_ _“Very impressive.”  
_ _Guinevere knew that voice, it was still a stranger’s voice to her, friendly but foreign. She turned and the crowd seemed to part for the man of the hour, their leader and her brand-new husband. Guinevere’s smile remained on her face, only a more tempered version, still testing the waters with this man that seemed warm and kind and soft. So very different from what she was used to. A small nod and she put her weapon away.  
_ _“Just some harmless fun.”  
_ _“Didn’t look harmless to me.” Fern laughed as he walked up to her, moving closer, the sound was deep but modest. She had learned he was modest in most of the things he did. Safe.  
_ _“Are you alright?” his smile was as soft as the question and it did not sit well with Guinevere.  
_ _“Why wouldn’t I be?” she asked in genuine confusion.  
_ _“Guin! We’re…” Rowan’s arm was already around her shoulders when he noticed Fern. “Oh hey, Fern.”  
_ _“Rowan.”  
_ _The two of them had been raised as rivals, which was mostly the fault of their fathers but something they had never quite gotten over, not even with this marriage uniting their people.  
_ _“We’re heading out to the clearing now, are you coming?” Rowan’s question was very deliberately pointed at Guinevere and Fern awkwardly looked down at the both of them.  
_ _“Now? It’s midnight. You should rest. With me.”  
_ _Guinevere’s head moved so quickly she almost hurt her neck as she looked up at the man in disbelief.  
_ _“Yeah, now. It’s the full moon, excellent time for the warriors to..”  
_ _“Rowan.” Guinevere’s voice was low as she warned her brother not to meddle in her affairs.  
_ _“Alright…I’ll see you in a bit.” Rowan shot a glance at Fern. “Or not.”  
_ _Guin waited patiently for her brother to leave while her skin started to crawl. She didn’t look at Fern until she was sure she could do so normally.  
_ _“What was that?”  
_ _“You’ve had a very long day…”  
_ _“I’m fine.”  
_ _“But the nightmares..you’ve barely slept. Shouldn’t you…”  
_ _“I don’t need you to decide that for me.” Guinevere interrupted him.  
_ _She had been plagued with nightmares ever since the death of her father, this was true, but she hated that Fern had seen this weakness because he had treated her like something fragile ever since. Tonight, the fight with Eddard, she wanted him to see she was strong, to admire her instead of desire her. All she wanted out of this marriage was equality, but it proved the hardest fight yet.  
_ _“Guinevere. I am your husband now, I am supposed to take care of you.”  
_ _Guinevere shook her head, suddenly losing patience as she stormed into the direction of the woods leading to the clearing.  
_ _“I don’t want you to take care of me!”  
_ _“Guinevere!” Fern rushed after her, catching her wrist to pull her back and Guinevere was swift to release a dagger from her sleeve and hold it up warningly, eyes ablaze. Fern’s face was filled with disappointment and misunderstanding, maybe even some fear. Guinevere wasn’t out to hurt him, she would never, this was just the way things went with her people. But Fern wasn’t her people.  
_ _“You don’t do that.” He whispered his warning, as if she was a child that needed to be taught how to behave. Guinevere swallowed the words she wanted to say, breathing heavily instead.  
_ _“Please…” he pleaded, “Give me a chance.”  
_ _And again, Fern’s face softened, everything about him warm and welcoming. Why couldn’t she_ feel _that? She realized she couldn’t because she_ did _give him a chance. She had done all she had done tonight for him, to see her, the real her. She just wasn’t sure if it was what he wanted her to be.  
_ _Guinevere relaxed, suddenly tired, and pulled back her knife, turning it swiftly in her hand so it’s blade was now between her fingers. She looked down at it and sighed.  
_ _“Just let me in.” Fern begged in a whisper, pushing her hair back behind her shoulder, so close now she could feel the warmth radiate from his chest but she was still looking down at her blade. She had left the door wide open for him but he had walked right by, begging for even more.  
_ _“Just let me in, Guin.”_

***  
  
Lancelot woke because he heard something move and his hand was on the hilt of his sword even before he could open his eyes. His thoughts immediately went out to the child and the woman and the feelings was so intense it momentarily froze him, eyes shifting in thought as he tried to figure out what this meant because he had felt it many times during the last few days. _Something sinful_? The warning had suddenly changed into a question in his mind. His eyes shot up and his head moved to look around the cave. When he did not spot any immediate danger, he sat up slowly and the sound was back. Lancelot turned his head quickly only to find Guinevere was up. She was laying on the floor, hair spread out over the uneven ground and when he slowly got up he could tell her legs were partly in the water, bent at the knee as she looked up at the ceiling. The scene seemed strange and he couldn’t help but wonder what she was doing but she looked so comfortable Lancelot felt strangely at ease as he slowly walked up to her, abandoning his make-shift bed. He did not speak, not wanting to interrupt whatever she was doing but he failed, nonetheless.  
Guinevere heard him -of course- and tilted her head to look at him, smiling sleepily. It wasn’t the first time she looked supernatural to him, but it _was_ the first time he allowed himself to marvel at that. How her hair spread out in waves similar to those on her neck, which he couldn’t quite forget. And how the corners of her lips curled upward almost effortlessly as her face relaxed. The bruises there had turned purple and yellow, but the damage did not take away from her beauty. Lancelot watched the contentment on that face as he sat down next to her and in her aura he was suddenly calm. Her legs were moving, swaying in the water and it responded with soft sounds that were almost _happy_. Or was he imagining things?  
“What are you doing?”  
Guinevere did not open her eyes, she just smiled and for a moment Lancelot wondered if she was going to answer him or if he had to ask her the question again. He was patient though and when she opened her eyes, she held up her hand for him to see. The skin was clear, pink and tender, but free of burns and blisters. Lancelot had to touch that skin to believe it, curious fingertips running along her palm, studying the miracle. Guinevere’s hand was soft and warm, and her fingers now closed around his, her own thumb curious too as it carefully ran down along his index finger. But his hands had no miracle to offer, no magic healing skin. Why would she keep touching it like it had?  
Lancelot was afraid to move and break this spell, afraid to say something that might make her stop because he didn’t want her to. He watched their hands and as if it had always known what to do his own thumb now caressed the soft back of her hand, other fingers finding shelter between hers shyly. When he looked up, he did so at the exact same time as she did, and the spell was broken. Guinevere dropped her hand and sat up quickly. The skin of Lancelot’s hand screamed for her to stay and even the water protested against her movements, loudly sloshing back and forth but Guinevere was sitting up, her cheeks a slightly darker shade of pink.  
“How did you do that?” Lancelot asked, still curious but his mind was now equally occupied by the sensation of their hands touching like that. Guinevere did not look at him, but she smiled.  
“I didn’t do anything. The water did.”  
The both of them stared at the water in silence, Guinevere lovingly, Lancelot with mostly questions.  
“The Hidden?” he wasn’t quite comfortable with the question, but brave enough to ask it anyway. This made her look at him though, and her face was open and calm, like it wasn’t a strange thing to ask at all.  
“Yes.”   
Guinevere smiled again and it was like looking at a sunset, no matter how often he saw it, it would always move him. Lancelot looked away now, struggling to find words to go down the path he had started on.  
“Does it make you uncomfortable?”  
Guinevere coaxed him into looking up just with the sound of her voice, Lancelot wondered if she knew she was doing it. He considered the question, looking down at the rocky underground on which both of their hands rested, worlds apart.  
“Yes.” He finally answered, honestly and it didn’t feel as uneasy as he thought it would.  
Lancelot had expected her face to drop or change, for some sign of disappointment but there was none. Instead, there was curiosity, a puzzling look before she started to think out loud. Her voice quiet but light.  
“What if it’s the same. Your God and mine?”  
“They can’t be.” Lancelot replied, trained words in a trained voice. It didn’t feel like him anymore.  
“Why not?” She was quick to ask, keeping him on his toes.  
“God doesn’t allow magic like that.” Lancelot jerked his head, indicating her hands.  
“I disagree.” Guinevere glanced at him, smirking playfully. “I believe you call them miracles.”  
He watched her now, in awe or disbelief, he wasn’t sure. He just didn’t want to stop talking because with her it felt like the chaos in his mind was finally becoming clear.  
“What if,” she quickly glanced at him again -with that smirk that made him question his sanity- as if they were sharing a secret. “…and _only_ what if, they’re the same but the stories are what’s different?”  
Lancelot knew he should fight for his beliefs. He knew he should get angry at such musings because they were wrong and sinful. Instead, they ended up in not entirely unfriendly banter, the only disapproval a halfhearted warning in his voice.  
“The holy scriptures are not stories.”  
“Neither are our legends.”   
She mimicked his tone perfectly, almost teasingly so, and Lancelot’s eyebrows moved upward.  
“It is forbidden.”  
“It is nature.”  
They were silent for a long time as Lancelot considered the possibility of her words, they had sparked something inside of him but as soon as that comfortable fire started to spread the voices in his mind turned vicious. God hated him for what he was, and her gods would surely hate him for what he had done. There was no salvation in either.  
“It can’t be.”  
Lancelot did not realize he had said this out loud until he saw Guinevere look at him questioningly. She did not pressure him though, which he appreciated, and when he didn’t continue, she looked back at the water. Her other hand, the one that wasn’t on the ground so close yet worlds from his, was playing with the ring around her neck absentmindedly. He didn’t want to listen to those voices in his mind, creeping up on him like shadows, so he spoke instead.   
“You said your mother was a warrior, what about your father?”  
He had expected her to be sad but instead she smiled, the fondness in her eyes softer than anything he had seen in any of her expressions.  
“One of the best warriors our tribe ever had.”  
Lancelot’s hand still burned with the memory of hers _almost_ intertwined with it and it moved closer subconsciously, searching for hers.  
“Is he…”  
“Dead? Yes. He died a few days before my wedding ceremony.”  
Lancelot pulled his hand back now and sat up straighter, there was so much in her answer that told him to keep his distance. He felt wrong for the desperate tingle that still surrounded his hand, as if something was calling out to it.  
“I’m sorry.”  
“There’s no need to be sorry. It was honorable, a warrior’s death.”  
The words sounded rehearsed, like something she was supposed to say but did not truly feel. He detected the slightest strain in her voice because he was familiar with this behavior.  
“But this made you sad.” Lancelot stated matter-of-factly, wanting her to know he could see through her words. Why did he want that so bad? Guinevere turned her head to look at him and her face was a little harder now.  
“I was angry with him, just before he died. I shouldn’t have been, but I was.”  
“He would have forgiven you.”  
“I know. But I didn’t forgive myself.”  
Lancelot held her gaze now, her dark eyes so stern he couldn’t do anything but believe her and this stirred many emotions in him that he wasn’t familiar with.  
“Why were you angry with him?”  
This sparked an unexpected laugh in Guinevere and Lancelot was confused and frustrated with that confusion because he _wanted_ to understand. He wanted to understand _her_.   
“Because I was a stubborn child. I was proud and took it out on my father.”  
Lancelot did not speak, he simply cocked his head to the side, still watching her, still trying to understand. Luckily it did not take Guinevere long to continue.  
“I felt like he used me. I don’t like to be used.”  
This feeling Lancelot _did_ understand. He couldn’t imagine anyone using Guinevere for anything, to him she seemed wild and free, untamable and he wondered why anyone would ever want to try.  
“What did he do?”  
“He told me to marry a man.”  
She looked at him now and the smirk was back, taking Lancelot by surprise. There was a dangerous hint of something playful he couldn’t quite place in her voice, was she mocking him? Her face didn’t look like she was.  
“So, it wasn’t your choice?”  
She laughed again, and Lancelot finally understood it was in defiance. Of her father. Or was it resentment?  
“My choice isn’t important.”  
“It is to me.”  
Her dark eyes were glued to his now and Lancelot couldn’t help but notice how her lips parted, making him forget to breathe again. He only noticed because when he continued breathing, it was uneven. He glanced down at the ring, shimmering gold pale in comparison to the skin it rested against and when he looked back up she was still watching him. She swallowed, drew in a shaky breath and looked away.  
“Our fathers arranged the marriage to join our tribes. They arranged it on my father’s deathbed, like old friends even though they had been enemies for most of their lives.”  
Lancelot had not looked away, he couldn’t, instead he watched her speak, so effortlessly it made him comfortable and envious at the same time.  
“My father had four sons and a daughter, Fern’s father only had one son. If I married him, I got to lead our tribe, _and_ a new one. Build a better future.”  
“I’m sorry.”  
“Why? It was the greatest honor, I got to lead my people.” She smiled proudly but Lancelot could feel something coming, he could feel it like it was right there in the air. Heavy and sad.  
“And now…”   
“And now they’re gone. What kind of leader lets her people down _and survives_?”  
There it was, the heavy sadness, the darkness of self-hatred that Lancelot knew so well. Meeting her gaze now was like looking into a mirror. He wanted to do something to get that proud smile back, he _needed_ to do something to lift this hurt, carry it for her. It made him lean in closer, his hand searching across stone until fingertips touched. A journey that seemed to take forever yet he stopped right there, afraid to travel further into the unknown.  
“You didn’t let your people down. You saved Squirrel.”   
“And you…” she said, and Lancelot had succeeded, that smile was back, and it was glorious. So glorious he couldn’t help but return the favor shyly. There was silence again when they both looked back at the water, listening to the fire crackle behind them. Lancelot could feel how a careful fingertip brushed up his finger and although he did not want to lose that feeling, he had to know…he had to know if wanting that wasn’t selfish.  
“Do you miss him?”  
He had to know. Why did he have to know?  
“I miss the life we had. Fern was…” Guinevere frowned now, not in pain but in confusion. “..more of a good friend.”  
“Do you think that could’ve changed? If you had more time?”  
Lancelot was unsure if that was a thing he hoped could’ve been true for her, or if the question was purely for himself. The truth was most likely somewhere in between. Guinevere smiled again, but this time the expression _was_ sad. Lancelot was afraid he had pressed too far but when she spoke her voice was strong and determined and her answer ignited exactly the same emotions in him.  
“My father always said I wasn’t born to love but to lead.”  
“You could do both.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HANDS ARE TOUCHING?! Am I the only one excited about this?!


End file.
